


Waiting For This Moment to Arise

by htbthomas



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bratva, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Case Fic, Courtroom Drama, F/M, Female Friendship, Gen, Hacking, Identity Porn, Identity Reveal, Lawyers, Multilingual Character, Partnership, Past-Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen, Reveal, Secret Identity, Tattoos, Team Arrow, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-08 02:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 49,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laurel enlists Felicity’s help on a new case, but when the research trail could lead to Oliver’s secret being uncovered, Felicity must decide between secrets kept and justice done.</p><p>---</p><p>Laurel and Felicity friendship becomes partnership fic. Uses 1.19, "Unfinished Business" as a jumping-off point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Blackbird" by The Beatles. Thanks to veritas724 for beta help and being my Arrow squee buddy. ♥

“They have better coffee here than I expected.” Laurel wraps her hands around the plain white ceramic mug and takes a sip, her third cup since they arrived.

Oliver nods his head toward the _Big Belly Burger_ sign. “They have better _everything_ than expected.” He smiles at her, the warmth shining all the way from his intensely blue eyes. In the five years he was away, she'd forgotten how intense they could be. They draw her in, give her hope that he’s starting to truly recover. As the months have passed, Laurel has noticed that his smiles come more and more easily. He was so _broken_ and distant when he returned from the island. So haunted. She’s glad he’s decided to live in the present again, with his friends and family to help.

At that moment, the waitress comes up to their table, full coffee pot in hand. She gives Oliver a familiar smile. “Can I refresh your cup, Oliver?”

He grins back up at her. “No thanks, Carly, I’m good.”

Carly gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder and turns back toward the counter.

“I didn’t know you were a regular here,” Laurel teases, watching Carly float between the other tables. “First name basis, huh?” 

Oliver nods, as if no one should be surprised that a billionaire has made a greasy spoon his new favorite watering hole. Why isn’t this place teeming with paparazzi? she thinks. Or doing better on Yelp? It can’t just be its location— _Verdant_ ’s business is booming, despite being in The Glades. He sets his cup down. “She’s a friend of Diggle’s.”

Laurel’s eyebrows rise, and she turns to look at Carly with interest, ringing someone up at the register. “Friend? Or girlfriend?”

Oliver tilts his head back and forth, lips quirking, an almost-goofy gesture she thought he’d lost out in the South China Sea. “Closer to girlfriend now?” He shrugs. “You’d have to ask Diggle.”

Laurel shakes her head. “I’ll take your word for it.” Taking another sip, she realizes something—she’s rarely seen him separated from his bodyguard since John Diggle started working for the Queens. She doesn’t remember Oliver being quite so buddy-buddy with any of the other security guards his family had employed in the past. Diggle’s influence must be doing him some good. “You two are pretty close, aren’t you?”

Oliver’s expression grows thoughtful, and he looks down into his cup, studying its contents as if he can find the answers in its inky depths. “Yes. When you spend so much time with someone, it just happens.”

Laurel suspects it’s a lot more than that, but she lets it drop. Her phone vibrates in her bag, and she lifts it out to check. “Excuse me.”

It’s a text from Tommy. _Meet you for lunch?_

She grimaces, not about Tommy, but about how late it’s already gotten. The time spent getting coffee with Oliver had flown by. She had been planning to just grab something to go here, take a working lunch so she could dig into her latest case. She types back, _No time today, going to work thru._

She sets the phone on the table, face apologetic. “This has been great, Ollie, but I’d better get back to work. _Some_ of us have to work during the daylight hours,” she says, her words a gentle jab at Oliver as she picks up the laminated menu from the holder at the center of the table. “Since you’re such a regular, what’s good here?” 

His fingers brush against hers as he pulls the card from her hand and scans it. “Hmm. I think nothing beats the original Big Belly Burger with everything on it.”

She pulls the hand down into her lap. “Really? The same Oliver who used to complain if the steak wasn’t exactly the right shade of pink likes a plain old burger?” she jokes. It’s only after she says it that she realizes she’s being a bit insensitive.

But Oliver’s eyes twinkle. “Hey, a _plain_ old, good old American burger tastes like five-star cuisine to me these days after a steady diet of wild birds and raw fish.”

Her phone buzzes again—what is it this time? She ignores it for a moment. “So the next time we get together, sushi is right out?”

Oliver makes another goofy face. “Definitely.”

She checks her phone; the text is from Tommy again. _Why don’t I bring by a bento?_ She chuckles at the coincidence.

“What?” Oliver asks, nodding at her phone.

“Tommy wants to bring by lunch... Japanese.”

“Ah...” Oliver replies, the light going out of his eyes, despite his smile. He sets the menu back into its holder, breaks eye contact. “I guess it’s settled then.”

Her heart sinks a little—after the lovely conversation they’ve had today, she’s sorry to be ending it on a down note. She hasn’t asked Oliver what happened between him and Tommy, and Tommy doesn’t want to talk about it either, not in more than one syllable answers, anyway. So she tries to keep her tone light. “Not necessarily. A burger sounds amazing right now.”

Oliver brightens, maybe the day is saved. “You won’t regret it.” He lifts his hand to signal Carly, mouthing, “One original, to go.” Carly nods and writes it on her pad.

Laurel types back to Tommy. _Getting a burger, thanks tho. See you later?_ She slips the phone back into her bag. Looking up, she sees that Oliver’s attention is toward the doors, where a cute blonde with glasses and a ponytail is coming in. She looks familiar, but Laurel can’t really place her. Has she been at the club?

Oliver lifts a hand to wave at her. “Felicity! Over here.”

Laurel’s curiosity turns to definite interest. Another woman that Laurel has never met that Oliver knows by name? Sure, they don’t exactly run in the same circles any more, but it really hits home that he has developed a whole separate life since he’s been back. 

“Oliver!” Felicity greets him in return, and then continues in a rush as she approaches the table, “You weren’t answering your phone or your texts, and John wasn’t around to chase after you, so I just switched on your phone’s GP—oh!" She cuts off, realizing Oliver isn’t alone. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were...”

“Having coffee with a friend?” Oliver gives Felicity an understanding smile. “I didn’t mean to worry you. What’s up?” he asks mildly.

“Uh, well, it’s really nothing _urgent_ per se. I probably could have just waited, but you know, half the time, if I don’t take care of it right away, I’ll just put it on the backburner and forget it, and no one wants it charred black as...” she trails off awkwardly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Black as...?” Oliver asks, amused. 

“Blackened fish? I don’t know, I hate Cajun, all spicy and filled with bits I can’t recognize... anyway!” She holds out her hand to Laurel to shake. “Felicity Smoak. I work at Queen Consolidated.”

“Laurel Lance. I’m an old friend of Oliver’s.”

Felicity nods. “Also Oliver’s ex.” Then she blushes, hurrying on, “And a lawyer at CNRI. Um, great work you do there.”

“That...” Laurel responds, a little overwhelmed by Felicity’s barrage of words. “Is all true! Or at least we try to do good work. Are you... interested in legal aid?”

“Oh, no, not really. I just know who you are because of Oliver. Hard not to, working with him so—”

Oliver, whose eyes have been bouncing back and forth between the two women like a ball in a tennis match, interrupts. “Felicity has been helping me with my security system at _Verdant_.”

“Yep, I’m his girl,” she chirps, then clarifies, “His I.T. girl. I consult for him. That’s all. Nothing else.”

Felicity is very vibrant, Laurel thinks, liking her immediately. Laurel wonders idly if Felicity and Oliver have anything else going on between them, despite her protestations. Felicity is so different from the usual girls Oliver has dated, it might be good for him.

But she’s not going to pry. Her food arrives then, tied up in a plastic bag, and Laurel stands. She tosses a ten onto the table. “It was nice to meet you, Felicity.” To Oliver, she says, “Thanks for the coffee and the recommendation, Ollie. Let’s do this again.”

“Let’s.” He stands and pulls her into a friendly hug. “And soon.”

As Laurel leaves the restaurant, she turns back to look at Oliver and Felicity, who are now sitting across the table from each other engaged in earnest conversation. Yes, she grins to herself, there is definitely something else going on there.

* * *

When she arrives back at CNRI, Tommy is waiting at her desk. He smiles widely on seeing her, leaning close to give her cheek a kiss. “I came anyway. Hope that’s okay?”

She’s got a lot of work ahead of her, but she isn’t going to complain. Now that he’s quit managing the club, he has a lot more time for her, and she’s enjoying making up for lost time. “Of course it is.”

She unpacks her burger from its container, noticing that Carly stocked the bag with plenty of napkins. Messy burgers are the best. Her stomach rumbles—she hadn’t realized she was this hungry.

“Man, I wish I’d asked you to bring _me_ one now...” He eyes his bento with regret.

“I totally would have.” She sits in her desk chair and lifts the dripping burger carefully over the paper wrapping. “Time to see if these are as great as Ollie says they are.”

“Oliver?” he says in an odd voice, just as she’s biting into the burger.

She realizes her slip up too late, but for a glorious moment doesn’t even care. The flavors of beef, red onion, mayonnaise and mustard mix with the bread and a seasoning she can’t place, and she moans. “Oh, that’s good,” she says, wiping her mouth with a napkin. She hopes she’ll have enough.

“Were you with Oliver earlier?” Tommy asks again.

Laurel sets her burger down with a sigh. “Yes, Tommy. He’s still _my_ friend, no matter what went down between you guys.” 

“I know.” He frowns and looks down at his hands, which are curled into tight fists in reaction to her news. 

She reaches over and places her hand gently on top of one of them, smoothing a finger across his tense muscles. “You’re not going to try to tell me who I can and cannot be friends with, are you? ‘Cause that sounds an awful lot like my dad.”

His head shoots up, his face wearing an offended expression. “Ouch.”

She lifts her eyebrows as if to say, _You see what I’m saying?_ and goes in for another amazing bite of her burger.

“But he’s not wrong.” Tommy starts to unwrap his lunch. 

Laurel swallows, opening her mouth in mock-shock. “Are you actually agreeing with my dad about something?” she teases.

But Tommy doesn’t laugh. “Oliver has changed, Laurel. I mean, _really_ changed.”

“Of course he has, we all know he has. He had to have gone through hell on that island.” They’d had this discussion before, back when Tommy was trying to get _her_ to give Oliver another chance. It feels strange to have the shoe on the other foot. “Have you seen his scars?” She shudders, remembering. Seeing them had started their journey back to friendship.

Tommy nods slowly. “Those scars go a lot farther than skin deep. I think...” He shakes his head, as if the next words are going to be hard to say, “...there’s something really _wrong_ with him. Mentally wrong.”

“Tommy, what?” She fully puts her burger down and swivels to face him. “You’re not serious?”

“Dead serious.” His lips quirk at some private joke. “He hides it well, but I saw it when we were working together. It’s almost like part of him, the part that used to care about other people, is just gone. He only pretends to care now.”

“So you’re saying Oliver is some sort of... sociopath?” She throws up her hands. “C’mon, Tommy. He’s trying to reach out, to heal. That’s why we met for coffee today. He told me that he doesn’t want to ‘live on an island anymore.’ If we abandon him...”

“He’ll be fine. He has other people.” He seems to realize how harsh he sounds and he explains, “John Diggle... Felicity Smoak... He’s spent more time with them than me the last few months.”

Strange how just today she had noticed how close Oliver was with Diggle and Felicity. It doesn’t change her opinion. “They don’t know him like we do, Tommy. He needs to keep his ties to the past as well as looking ahead.”

Tommy just shakes his head. “They know him better than I do now.”

What a blow-out it must have been if Tommy wanted to completely cut ties with the person he once called his best friend. She wishes he would open up to her about it. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk about what happened?”

“I... can’t. Not yet. Give me time, okay?”

As hard as it is to see him hurting, she says, “Okay.” Then she leans over and gives him a light kiss to show she’s all right with that. She’s almost done with her burger, anyway. She wraps up the drippings and tosses it all into the trash. “I should get back to my casework now. Isn’t your lunch break almost over?”

He glances at his watch. “Oh, crap, yes.” Dumping his half-eaten bento into her wastebasket, he jumps up, snagging his jacket from the back of his chair. “You’d think being the boss’s son, they’d cut me some slack, but...”

“Bye!” she waves at his retreating back.

Laurel pulls up the folder on her computer. She was only assigned the case today, and had spent most of the morning making sure the paperwork on her last case was filed properly. Speaking of...

“Thea?” she calls out over her monitor. “Are you back yet?”

Thea pops her head around a doorframe, “You called, boss?”

Laurel smiles and crooks her finger to get her to come over. Thea is starting to take to her clerical work—Laurel is going to miss Thea’s quirky wit when her community service is over. “Could you pull out everything we have on...” She looks at her screen, squinting. “...Sonya Larina’s case?”

Thea gives her a thumbs’ up. “Gotcha.”

While she waits, she checks the database for anything online. CNRI had taken on Sonya, a non-citizen who deeply wished to remain in the United States, because she had been charged with arson and could not afford her own lawyer. Reading her client’s deposition, rife with broken English, Laurel begins to suspect Sonya is a victim of human trafficking, but is too scared or has too-limited English to convey it.

Laurel has a thought, opens up her contacts file. Her eyes run down a list of names, alighting on two likely ones. She picks up the phone to dial...

Ten minutes later, she’s hanging up, frustrated. “Damn! Of all weeks to go on vacation!”

“What’s up?” Thea says at her shoulder, carrying an armful of files. 

Laurel jumps, she hadn’t noticed her there. How long had she been standing there waiting? “Oh, I need a translator, but both of CNRI’s contacts are out of the country this week.”

“Bummer. I know a little Spanish... okay, not really that much. I _may_ have texted my way through that class.” 

Laurel laughs. “Thanks for the offer...” Thea gives her a mock-serious nod. “...but what I need is a Russian translator.”

“Hmm. Maybe try an app? That’s the only reason I passed my Spanish class at all.” Thea sets down the files beside Laurel’s mouse. “Be back with the rest.”

Laurel watches her go, impressed. Is there really an app that could do the trick? It would have to be a pretty damn good one, to make sure that the translation was solid. She pulls up her browser and starts to look for recommendations...

Then she stops, mid-stroke. Why get recommendations from random strangers on the internet? Laurel picks up her phone again and punches in a number she’s had memorized for years. A woman answers, “Hello, Queen Consolidated. How may I direct your call?” 

“Please put me through to Felicity Smoak.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My plan is to flip-flop Laurel's and Felicity's point-of-view in each chapter. Constructive criticism, feedback and questions are highly desired! And of course, subscribe if you are interested in where this is going. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to innerbrat for helping on this one! And wow, Felicity is really fun to write.

“So...” Felicity says, taking a seat. “Meeting your ex at the BBB? That’s a new one.”

Oliver smiles lightly, just a twitch of the corners of his mouth. It’s one of his many controlled reactions for when he’s out in public. Sort of makes her want to be down in the Arrow Cave, so he can speak freely. She starts to glance over her shoulder, to watch Laurel go before they get too involved in the news...

Oliver suddenly has his hand on her forearm, stilling her. “Don’t look back. She’s still there, watching us.”

She’d never even seen him move. “Whoa,” Felicity says, but doesn’t turn around. “Mad Island skills much? What _was_ in the water there?”

He never takes his eyes off her face, but she knows he’s keeping Laurel in his peripheral vision. “Clarity.” His hand continues to press down on her arm like an immovable weight.

She raises an eyebrow at him. Sometimes he can be a total drama... um, drama ‘Queen.’ A moment later, he releases her as quickly as he had grabbed her and pulls back as if nothing had happened.

Felicity leans back as well, folding her arms. “So, again, burgers plus ex equals what? Another case?”

“No. It was like I said, just catching up with a friend.” He looks as if he wants to drop the subject. “And it was coffee.”

“Fine, fine, okay, you don’t want to talk about it, but...” She tilts her head down to peer at him over the edge of her glasses. “You would tell me if there were something in the works, right?”

“Of course. You’re part of the team.”

“For now,” she reminds him.

Oliver simply nods. The longer she works with him, the more she’s had to think about the future. What if they never find Walter? What if they do? She hasn’t quite decided what her next step is yet.

“So what brings you by?” he asks, before taking a sip of coffee, his outward demeanor placid. She’s known him long enough to see right through it. He might as well have a LCD marquee display with the words, _DO NOT DISTURB, MUST BROOD_ running across his forehead in a loop.

Well, forget that. “I was running a couple of database searches in the background while I was finishing up a project... as you do... and I got a ping on a name from the List.”

“Oh?” he says, and he’s suddenly all ears, as much as he can be out in the open.

“Yeah, my tracking software caught a few large transfers of money into and out of Ben Hawthorne’s account. Maybe related to The Undertaking?”

He nods. “Anything could be.”

She passes over an flash drive. “Open this downstairs, the system will auto-decrypt for authorized users.”

Suddenly Oliver is standing, pocketing the flash drive so quickly she almost doesn’t see it. He catches her eye and gives her a sincere, “Thank you, Felicity. I’ll take care of it.” Then he pats her shoulder on the way out. No goodbye, he’s just gone. She’s gotten used to it over the past few weeks.

Felicity’s stomach suddenly growls, and she gives it a side-eyed glance. “You got something against free food? Could have done that while the boss was still here.” Being the vigilante’s I.T. girl might be exciting, but it didn’t come with a raise in pay.

* * *

The thing about onion rings? Not really the best choice for a working lunch. Crumbly and greasy, and the way the breading sometimes separated from the onion and fell onto the computer keyboard...

Felicity lifts the keyboard and shakes out the grimy bits the best she can over her wastebasket. She’s going to have to disinfect and clean it—again—but holy crap, no one makes onion rings like the _Big Belly Burger_ does. Though if she eats anymore, she’ll have to spar twice as long with John tonight.

Honestly, she doesn’t know how Oliver manages to eat at the BBB at all, even as much as he works out. She shakes her head—she hates mysteries, and she’s starting to think Oliver Queen is one mystery she’ll never completely unravel.

She’s using a folded piece of tissue paper to get a particularly stubborn crumb out from under the edge of the ‘h’ key when the phone rings. She picks up the receiver and places it under the edge of her chin. “I.T. department, Felicity Smoak.”

_“Hello, Felicity? This is Laurel Lance, we met earlier?”_

The voice is the last one she expected to hear when she picked up the phone. Felicity drops it from under her chin, and the keyboard takes a nosedive into the wastebasket. “Crap!”

By the time she recovers and gets the receiver back to her ear, she can hear Laurel saying, _“Hello? Ms. Smoak?”_

“Laurel! Yeah, sorry, the phone apparently decided to make a break for it,” she jokes. “I’ve told it before, good luck finding a better boss than...” She trails off, feeling awkward, as usual. Clearing her throat, she starts again, “What can I help you with?”

 _“I’m hoping you can help me with a case.”_ Laurel thankfully does not sound weirded out.

Felicity tries to keep her voice neutral. “Oh?” What sort of case would require tech help? Especially the non-illegal kind.

_“Yes. Do you have any experience with translation software?”_

“Some.” Felicity has used it more in the last month working with Oliver than in her entire career to date, but there’s no need to tell Laurel that. She opens up her programs file. “Which languages do you need help with?”

_“Just one language. Russian. I’m defending a woman whose English is quite limited. I’m hoping I can get a more accurate picture of her side of the story.”_

Felicity presses her lips together in thought. Translation programs are only a stop-gap at best. Surely any translation obtained that way wouldn’t be admissible in court...

 _“Is that a problem?”_ Laurel asks when Felicity’s silent too long.

“Oh, no!” Felicity says quickly. “Not at all. I have several possibilities that would do the trick...”

_“Wonderful.”_

“...but would you be able to use it? Legally, I mean?”

Laurel quickly explains, _“Oh no, definitely not in court. She’ll have a court-appointed translator. But I’d like to be able to start planning her defense as soon as possible. I’m hoping that if she can tell me her story in her native language, some detail might come out that will give me another angle to work. The actual human translators we have on retainer with CNRI aren’t available this week, and time is of the essence.”_

“I see.” Felicity’s neon-colored nails tap across her keyboard as she talks. “I’ve used a couple of different programs, but I’ve not used them for Russian at all.” With good reason. Between Oliver and John, they have Russian, Mandarin and Arabic covered. Felicity can speak a smattering of phrases in other languages, but she’s has always been fluent in the language of coding instead—Python, C, Java, Perl, and LISP to name just a few. They _are_ a foreign language, no matter what the head of the foreign languages department might have thought. She nods her head for emphasis at the memory of the stuffed shirt with the disapproving look sitting behind the desk. She had too many other interesting courses to waste her time with “foreign languages,” and thanks to a flimsy university firewall, she never needed to.

 _“So...”_ Laurel’s voice snaps her back to the present. Felicity must have been silent too long once again, letting her racing thoughts lead her not just down the rabbit hole but deep into the warren.

“Sorry, just researching a couple of different possibilities for you.” It’s not untrue, since Felicity had been searching and thinking at the same time. Multitasking, for the win. “Where should I send the links?”

Laurel gives her an email address and a telephone number (though Felicity could easily find either one, she has learned the hard way that it’s only common courtesy to ask). Laurel’s voice is relieved as she adds, _“And thank you, Felicity. I can see why you’re so indispensable to Oliver.”_

“No problem.” Felicity says. As she puts the receiver down, the word hits her: indispensable? They only met in person this morning. Laurel got all that from a two minute conversation? Still, the thought pleases her, even if Laurel doesn’t really know just _how_ indispensable Felicity is to Oliver and his hooded persona.

Felicity sends off the links with a click and a smile. Now that she thinks about it, Laurel also fights for the helpless of Starling City, just in a different way. With a lot fewer arrows to the chest.

She glances at the clock, better get back to work. She’s got a lot left to do—both on the clock and off.

* * *

Felicity throws a punch, a quick jab to the face, and John ducks under it with ease. He retaliates by trying to throw her to the mat, but she side-steps, and manages to sweep his leg. He regains his footing and jumps back, giving her a nod of approval. She’s getting better.

As she lunges in again, she thinks about the two years of gymnastics her mother made her do—‘to get you out of the house’ was the ostensible reason. She wishes her mom had signed her up for martial arts instead. As an adult, she can see that there’s actually a mathematical beauty, a raw physics, to the movement of the body. Apply this percentage of force at this angle, rotate so many degrees at this velocity... When she breaks it down this way, she can let her mind guide her body, almost access the same sort of fugue state that she feels when deep into hacking or coding. She’s aware of what is going on around her, maybe starting to feel hyper-aware, yet there’s also tunnel vision. The world narrows down to her and John, strike, dodge, spin, motion, force, acceleration.

“You’re really improving.” Oliver’s voice suddenly breaks her concentration, and she gets knocked over by a kick to the back of her knees. She topples to the mat with an ungraceful _oof_ , and lies there a moment, panting heavily.

“You okay?” John asks, standing over her. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see that Oliver is standing somewhere near the edge of the mat; she doesn’t want to know what sort of expression he’s wearing now.

She nods silently, then holds up her hands in a time out signal.

John holds out a hand to help her up. “She really _is_ improving.” He wipes at his face with a towel, and adds, “Despite that last part.”

Felicity gives them both an exhausted grin. She wonders how long Oliver was watching them, arms crossed in thought. He’s wearing his club attire, not his leathers. Has he already been out, or will he wait until after closing?

“It’s getting easier,” she admits, blowing out a long breath. Although she couldn’t feel it in the throes of practice combat, she knows her muscles are going to be in want of a long, hot bath later. “Once I figured out the formulas, it started making sense.”

Oliver lets out a short laugh. “Formulas?”

“Yeah.” She walks over to a nearby table to pick up her water bottle, and takes a swig. “Like archery, for instance. You have to draw the bowstring with a certain amount of force and aim at a specific angle for each target, making calculations on the fly. Right?”

He shrugs. “I guess. I don’t really think about it. The way I was trained... it’s more of a spiritual thing.” His gaze turns inward and he isn’t present anymore, trapped in his secret memories of the past.

“One with the bow, you are,” she teases to break him from his trance.

It works—he nods. “Something like that.”

“Or maybe you’re just an archery savant.”

“Like Rain Man?” John asks, then purses his lips. “Would explain a lot.”

Oliver looks between both of them, the corners of his mouth turned up in a half-annoyed, half-amused smirk. “Might as well be back at home. I get my full daily allowance of teasing from Thea as it is.”

“Sorry,” she mouths. John pats him on the shoulder as he comes around to sit at one of the computer terminals. Oliver isn’t really put out, Felicity knows, and it’s good to see him lighten up. The last few weeks have been pretty rough on him. If he’s not careful, his anger and frustration might affect his focus. And she’s afraid of what he might do if he loses his focus. “Make any progress on the Ben Hawthorne thing?”

“He’s definitely not using the money for good, that’s certain.” He takes a seat at the third station, leaving the center chair open for her. “Not sure yet whether it has anything to do with The Undertaking.”

“Better safe than sorry,” John says. “Until we know who’s behind it, we have to treat every name on the List as a possible suspect.”

“And maybe he knows something about Walter, too,” Felicity puts in as a gentle reminder. She sits down, hoping her sweaty legs won’t stick to the leather. But now that Oliver is here, a bath has to take a backseat to business. “Could the funds be part of a payoff?”

Oliver places a gentle hand on her shoulder, as sticky as it is, letting her know he hasn’t forgotten her true purpose in working with them. “It’s possible.”

She doesn’t shrug off his hand, though she wants to. It would just call attention to this stupid crush of hers. She knows a relationship with Oliver Queen would be a bad idea. A _baaaaaaad_ one, a bleating voice in her head repeats, the more practical side of her stay-on-Team-Arrow-or-not ongoing mental argument. He’s too broken still for the kind of relationship she wants. And too reckless—if he lives longer than the day he crosses the last name off the List, she’ll reconsider. _So you’ll just have to help keep him alive_ , another voice says, the more hopeful side. That voice has been getting stronger of late.

She notices that both John and Oliver are staring at her, waiting for some sort of response. There she goes again, off on mental tangents. But better that than the word vomit she’s often prone to spew. “Um...”

Her phone vibrates, off to the side where she placed it before her sparring session with John. Saved by the buzz. Oliver picks it up to hand to her, but freezes on seeing the screen.

She sees what is throwing him before he says it aloud. “Laurel? Why is she texting you?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to continue to use 1.19 as a jumping-off point, despite the changes to Tommy and Laurel’s relationship in 1.20.

Laurel nods at the officer posted at the door. He gives her a brief smile, and she smiles back in kind. It’s nice to be treated well whenever she comes down to the station, but she never knows whether any of the uniformed officers are nice to her because they respect her... or because they’re afraid of her dad.

He opens the door for her, and she steps into the doorway. The woman seated at the table, hands cuffed together by a restraining bar, shrinks in on herself and doesn’t look up. “Ms. Larina?” she begins in a gentle voice. “I’m Laurel Lance, the attorney from CNRI.”

The door closes behind her, and Sonya Larina flinches at the sound. This woman is terrified. And no wonder, she’s been charged with a serious crime in a foreign country and her only help is an attorney she doesn’t know and didn’t hire. Couldn’t hire.

Trying not to startle her further, Laurel takes the chair across from her with great care, lowering herself slowly. She sets her briefcase on the floor beside her chair as lightly as she can, and then pulls out her phone. Setting it on the table between them, she says, “Ms. Larina, I’m going to use this to aid our conversation, okay?”

Sonya’s eyes shift to the side, but she doesn’t respond in any other way. Her brown hair is scraggly and tangled, her face haunted, with hollows under her eyes. She’s so thin that Laurel wonders if she’s eaten anything in the last few weeks at all.

“Sonya...” Laurel pulls up one of the apps Felicity had suggested, and then speaks in English into the mic. “Don’t be afraid. I only want to help you.”

Laurel checks to see that the app has correctly identified her words, and then presses the translate button. A computerized female voice spits the words back out into the room, in Russian. She can only hope that the program is as good as advertised.

Sonya freezes, and then meets her eyes for the first time. “You... no help.”

Laurel leans forward. “Yes, I _can_ help, Sonya.”

Sonya shake her head with one short, sharp jerk. “No.”

“Please...” She inches a hand forward to try to touch one of Sonya’s. Sonya’s fingers twitch away, though she can’t move her wrist very far. Laurel retreats. “Let me try.”

Sonya glances at the phone, and nods at it. “Use?”

Laurel slides it to the center of the table and presses the listen button. She nods for Sonya to begin. 

Sonya speaks, a few sentences. Though Laurel cannot understand the words, the tone is resignation. The app translates back, «It is impossible for you to help me. No American can help me, except one. And I am far beneath his notice.»

Laurel tilts her head in question, but inside, it feels like victory. Sonya is starting to open up. Now if she can just keep it going... “Why is that?” she asks with the translation app.

Her answer, though translated, is indirect. «I disobeyed. I thought I could be free, but it is no different here than at home.»

“Can you start from the beginning? Tell me how you came to Starling City?”

«I came...» She laughs, a mirthless sound. «...as many do. For a man.»

Laurel nods. “For marriage.”

«To see if I was _suitable_ for marriage.»

“And you were not?” Laurel is surprised. Though Sonya is now frail and battered, it is easy to see that she was once quite pretty.

«I was.» She pauses, and her lips quirk to the side. «But he was not suitable to _me_.»

“I see. You did not love him.”

«Love?» she asks, shaking her head. «Love is not necessary. Only respect. And he only respects himself.»

Laurel has known many men like that, in fact, Oliver was once one of them, before he returned. 

“I understand.” Sonya opens her mouth to disagree, but Laurel continues. “And yet I do not. I cannot. I have never been in your position.” Even with Oliver, if she had known he was cheating on her with Sara, she would have ended it. But she has never truly lived in a world where she would not have that power—Sonya’s world.

She nods. «I wanted to end it. But he is...» She lowers her voice, fearful. «...an Authority. He was angry that I rejected him.»

Laurel’s eyebrows draw down in confusion. “An Authority?” she asks quietly.

«Yes, Authority.» She repeats the word, but it doesn’t change the program’s translation. «Authority.» The word does not mean anything to her in context.

Laurel reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a pad of paper and a pen. “Could you write it down? I don’t think this program is translating the word correctly.”

Sonya’s eyes widen with worry. 

“It’s okay, you’re protected here. This is my father’s precinct. No one is recording this conversation—not video or audio.”

Sonya doesn’t look like that information consoles her much. But she nods and opens her fingers to receive the pen. As well as she can with her hands restrained, she writes several Cyrillic characters.

“Thank you. This may be helpful in your defense.” Laurel removes the paper from the pad, and places it into the file folder she has on Sonya. “Now, please, continue.”

«They told me I could stay here in Starling City, if I went to work. But it was a lie.» 

“They?”

«The Brotherhood.»

Yet another word that doesn’t make sense to Laurel. She writes it down, in English, on the pad. “Go on.”

Sonya’s hands tremble as she continues. «A Bull took me to a warehouse. I thought it was a club. But it was dirty and dilapidated inside. He tied me to a pole and...» She closes her eyes. «...set the building on fire.»

She writes “Bull” on the notepad, and then reaches a hand toward Sonya again. This time, her client doesn’t flinch away. She lets Laurel’s fingers close around hers.

«I was able to free myself from my bonds before I suffocated. But when I escaped into the open air, there were police and firemen waiting. As soon as they checked me for injuries, I was arrested.»

“Sonya, when you told your story to the police, didn’t they believe you?”

«No.» Tears are shimmering in her eyes now. «All people they questioned are afraid of The Brotherhood. They all agreed that I set the fire on purpose—that I was a jealous girlfriend who wanted revenge.» She sniffles, and her eyes plead for mercy. «You believe me?»

“I do.” Laurel has a suspicion about what happened to Sonya, but she’s going to need to do some research. She pulls the paper from her file again. “Can you write down these words for me as well: ‘Brotherhood’ and ‘Bull’?”

Sonya nods gratefully, and writes the words down. «Thank you, Ms. Lance. Thank you.»

“This is my job, Sonya. To try to protect those who cannot protect themselves.” She organizes everything into the file again, and stows it in her briefcase. “I will take the information you gave me and work up a defense. You should be hearing from me very soon."

Sonya looks so much more hopeful than when Laurel first entered the room—she sits straighter, and a smile touches her lips. «Soon.»

Laurel stands and reaches across the table to shake her restrained hand. Then she lifts the phone to shut off the app. But suddenly a thought she had filed away comes to the forefront of her thoughts. “Just a moment. Earlier you said only one American could help you, but you were ‘beneath his notice.’ What did you mean?”

Sonya hunches down again. «It is only a rumor.»

“Sometimes rumors hold a grain of truth.”

«There is talk... of an American Authority. One who has power beyond The Brotherhood. I have never heard his name. He is only ‘The American.’»

Laurel is not sure how this information will help, but she can’t discount anything. “I will look into it, Sonya. See you very soon.” Laurel knocks on the door to be let out, and as she leaves the room, she turns back to see Sonya gazing toward of the shuttered windows, where the rays of sunset are turning the blinds reddish orange. It makes a pattern of horizontal lines across her face, like bars. As the door closes, Laurel swears to herself that even though Sonya has to go back to jail while she awaits trial, she will _not_ remain there long.

* * *

As she waits for a taxi outside the precinct, she feels a sense of accomplishment. Though she still needs to translate those terms, she learned so much more than what was in Sonya’s original deposition. Now she has a solid foundation on which to base Sonya’s defense. And it’s all thanks to Felicity’s help.

The cab pulls up and she gets into the back seat. She gives the driver CNRI’s address. She has a long night ahead of her. Maybe she can ask Tommy to bring by some Thai? She starts to dial his number, but then sees Felicity’s name in her call log. She should really thank her first. She types: _Your app really did the trick! Thank you._

Then she calls Tommy, but gets his voicemail. “Hey, I’m going to be busy at the office with my newest case for a while yet. Do you think you could bring by dinner? I’m craving a green curry something awful.” If he’s too busy, she can just get something delivered.

She starts to put the phone away, but it buzzes in her hand. Tommy must be free after all...

But it’s a reply from Felicity. _Great to hear! No translation problems?_

_Just a couple words I need to research when I get back to the office._

Felicity’s response is immediate. _Can I lend a helping hand?_ A second later, another text follows. _With research._ Then another. _Not with other stuff. :P_

Laurel laughs, but then pauses in thought. Why is Felicity so eager to help? Still, Oliver seems to trust her, and she really came through on the translation app, so... Laurel digs in her briefcase for the paper with Sonya’s handwriting. She takes a photo of the three words and sends it with the message: _Let me know what you find._

Several minutes later, as the taxi is pulling up in front of her building, the phone buzzes again, this time a phone call instead of a text. “Hello, Felicity?”

“ _Laurel, where are you right now? At work?_ ” Her voice sounds tense.

She hands over a twenty to the driver and gets out of the cab. “I just got back from seeing my client at the precinct. Why?”

“ _I’m coming over. Promise me you won’t get on before I get there?_ ”

Laurel pushes through the doors and walks into the lobby. “Get on? Get on what? Or where?”

“ _The computer. To be safe, don’t even turn it on._ ”

Laurel stops in her tracks. “What? Why?”

“ _I want to install better security on your machine before you enter anything about your case. You could be in danger._ ” There’s a murmuring in the background as Felicity talks to someone else, but Laurel can’t make out the muffled words. Then she says, “ _Please, wait until I get there._ ”

Laurel frowns. None of this makes sense, and she’s not going to blindly follow orders. “Tell me why and I’ll be happy to do whatever you want.”

There’s murmuring again, louder, but still intelligible. Felicity sighs and then says in a low, serious voice, “ _I think your client has gotten herself in trouble with the Russian Mob._ ”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m suddenly _really_ glad I made the story go AU before the S1 finale. I can live in denial through this fic for a while longer...

The tension in the air is suddenly as tight as a bow string. Felicity blinks at Oliver, and clears her throat. “Laurel, um, called me? For I.T. help?”

“What?” Oliver fists the phone and jumps up from the chair. He paces a couple of steps away and then back toward her, and she shrinks back from the intensity on his face when he gets close. “Why?” 

“I don’t know. She needed help, I came to mind...?”

“Why _you_ of all people? I don’t want her getting _near_ our mission,” he growls.

“Why did _you_ come to _me_ that first time?”

He starts to pace again, eyes stormy—what happened to the easy-going manner he had when introducing them at the BBB? “I did some research, thought with your history, you might be a good candidate. But Laurel, doesn’t she have other people she can go to at her firm? It’s—”

She jumps up, then. “Oliver!” She feels like a tiny floating buoy against a massive approaching tidal wave, but he stops in his tracks nonetheless, this time, he’s the one blinking. Snatching her phone from his hand, she types back a friendly reply to Laurel while chiding Oliver. “Laurel has every right to think of me. You introduced us, remember? And she seems to trust your judgment in people.”

“God knows why,” John murmurs from where he leans against the desk.

Felicity cuts her eyes toward him, throwing him a _Good one!_ sort of smirk. But her attention is back on Oliver immediately. “Do I magically have an exclusive contract with Hood Enterprises LLC?” The phone buzzes another text at her, and—because Oliver is being ridiculous—she takes a moment to reply.

He huffs in frustration and steps beside her to look at the screen, which she doesn’t bother to hide. Why should she? She lets him scan the conversation—Laurel’s gratitude, her issues with a few words, Felicity’s offer to help... and then she realizes the way ‘lend a helping hand’ looks. She sends a couple more explanatory texts... which she regrets about a nanosecond after sending them, but oh well.

“Russian?” Oliver’s voice is calmer and now, curious. “Maybe... I could help?”

Felicity opens her mouth in mock-annoyance. “Oh, so _now_ you don’t have a problem with it... but it’ll definitely save research time if you can translate.” The next text is a photo—she shows it to him, waiting to see if he recognizes the Cyrillic characters.

His face blanches, and he takes a step back.

“Clearly, you can. And may I hazard a guess... not good news?”

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “You could say that.”

“Bratva?” John asks, sounding unsurprised.

“What-va?” Felicity looks between the two men with confusion, who are giving each other those serious life-just-got-real looks. She hates that, especially when she has no idea why. “Loop me in here, okay?”

“Bratva,” Oliver says, pointing to one of the words on her phone’s screen with a firm tap. “Or The Brotherhood. The Russian Mob.”

“Oh!” She should have realized that, especially considering they’re the reason Oliver knows Russian at all. Then, “Oh...” That really _is_ not good news. And she’d be willing to bet that right now, Oliver is envisioning Laurel in hot borscht. But then again... “Oh? But couldn’t you use your... connections... to help?”

Oliver’s face almost turns in on itself. “Oh no, no way. Laurel’s too smart, too inquisitive. If I help her, she’ll want to know how I’m suddenly fluent in Russian.”

“And know so much about the Bratva,” John puts in.

“You couldn’t have taken a couple courses in college?” Felicity’s own avoidance of language classes notwithstanding...

Oliver levels a look at her. “Laurel _knew_ me in college. I wasn’t exactly...”

“A model student. Yeah, yeah, I can believe that. Again, what _was_ in that Island water?” She forestalls any answer to that rhetorical question by going on. “Okay. So you help her indirectly, then. You could... pass on info anonymously, or even give it to me to ‘find in my research.’“

John nods. “That could work, Oliver.”

“Maybe.” Oliver runs a hand over his face, looking tired. “But it would be better if Laurel didn’t get involved at all. The Bratva are dangerous. I’m surprised that the case has even gotten this far—they tend to ‘take care of evidence’ long before anything goes to trial.”

“And you’re afraid they’re going to ‘take care of her,’ instead.”

Oliver nods.

“Right. But now you know, yeah? So it’s good that she came to me—we can protect her. And maybe help her win her case, besides.” Felicity sits down immediately at the computer and starts to type.

Oliver comes beside her to sit. “So how are _we_ going to do that?”

Felicity tsks, and pats his arm a couple of times. “Silly vigilante. I’ve got a couple of hacker tricks up my sleeve.”

Oliver looks down at her hand, raising one eyebrow at it. She pulls it away like his arm is a hot coal. Well, it’s hot, for sure, not the same kind of hot though, and definitely not coal, more of a tawny... She squeezes her eyes shut to stop that train of thought.

“Like what?” Oliver says, thankfully not calling attention to her weird reaction.

“If I can get access to her computer at CNRI, then I could plant tracking software—see what she has on the case, who’s involved, make sure she doesn’t access anything that could put her in danger. Meanwhile, you could—”

“Keep an eye on things, make sure no one is after her.”

“Not just that.” John takes a seat on the other side of Felicity. “Couldn’t you meet with your Bratva contacts, ask them to leave her alone?”

Oliver shakes his head. “No.”

“You’ve done it before. What’s different now?” John asks.

“Before, I could explain everything away as being in my own self-interest, favors that did not interfere with Bratva business. But crossing another member of the Bratva? Not a good idea.”

“Well, table that idea, then.” Felicity is past the first couple of layers of security—CNRI has a pretty good firewall, she figures legal defense organizations probably need it—still, it’s nothing she hasn’t broken through before. She continues working as she asks, “They don’t know about your... arrow-y habit, do they?”

“No. They just know me as Oliver Queen.”

Felicity stops typing. “Wait. They know your _actual_ , like, real life identity?” She turns to him, incredulous. “Doesn’t that worry you at all? What if someone tells the police? Or, even worse, the media?”

“I am Bratva.” His eyes are steely. “The Brotherhood do not give up one of our own.”

She holds her hands up in apologetic surrender. “Whoa, didn’t mean to diss your bros...” Which explains even more fully why he doesn’t want to get involved. A ping on her computer turns her attention back to her screen. “I’m in. Doesn’t look like she’s logged on to her computer in a couple hours. She must be in transit from meeting with her client.”

“Good timing.” John nods at the windows which open and close rapidly as Felicity searches the system. “You think you can plant your tracker before she returns?”

“Pshaw,” she says, “I could plant it regardless. Listen to me, who says ‘pshaw’ anymore.” She shakes her head. “Installing...” A new window, flashing red, pops up in center of the screen. “Uh oh.”

“Uh oh, what?” Oliver says, his vigilan-tone creeping in.

She points at the warning message. “Someone else is already watching.”

“Who?” he demands. 

“I don’t know. But if it’s the Bratva...”

“Then she’s already in danger.”

Felicity is already sweeping up her phone from the desk and dialing before Oliver finishes that statement. As soon as the call connects, she asks, trying to keep the urgency from her voice, “Laurel, where are you right now? At work?”

Felicity can hear the sounds of traffic noise in the background. Good, they’re in time. _“I just got back from seeing my client at the precinct. Why?”_

“I’m coming over. Promise me you won’t get on before I get there?”

Oliver whispers, “What? No! I should be—”

Felicity turns away from Oliver. He’s way too emotionally involved right now. She focuses on Laurel’s answer. _“Get on? Get on what? Or where?”_

“The computer. To be safe, don’t even turn it on.”

 _“What? Why?”_ Laurel’s suspicious. That’s good, usually—but she needs to trust Felicity in this case.

“I want to install better security on your machine before you enter anything about your case.” The half-truth will give her a reason to sift through the system in person; get a better trace on the culprit. “You could be in danger.” 

“Felicity!” Oliver’s whisper is getting louder. She covers the receiver with a hand just in time. “Tell her to leave CNRI completely. If you go over there, too, and someone from the Bratva _is_ watching, then that paints a target on your back as well!”

Felicity presses her lips together. “If she suddenly turns tail and leaves, won’t that look suspicious, too?” Into the phone, she says, “Please, wait until I get there.”

 _“Tell me why and I’ll be happy to do whatever you want.”_ Laurel’s suspicions are growing, clearly.

Felicity covers the receiver again. “She needs to know what’s going on, Oliver. You may need to keep her in the dark about a lot of things, but you aren’t going to keep her from this.”

A swirl of emotions crosses Oliver’s face. “Fine. Go. Tell her about the Bratva.” Then he’s spinning on his heel and stalking away. “But I’m coming, too.” He grabs his hood off its hook.

Felicity shares a small smile with John, then lifts her hand from the receiver. To Laurel, she says, “I think your client has gotten herself in trouble with the Russian Mob.”

* * *

When Felicity arrives at CNRI, Laurel is at her desk, flipping through one of a tall stack of law books. Felicity is concerned that she didn’t have to do much more than give her name to the man at the security desk. No ID check, no phone call back to Laurel to verify. She’s almost sorry that she didn’t give a fake name just to see what happened.

" _Security is too lax_ ," Oliver says in her ear.

" _Agreed,_ " John adds. He’s manning the computers back in the Arrow Cave, just in case.

“I was just thinking the same thing,” she murmurs back. She doesn’t know where Oliver has chosen to roost, but she’s going to assume he can see and hear everything. “I’d better hack the CC feed while I’m here.”

Laurel looks up, then, and smiles on seeing Felicity. It draws a smile from her as well, all unintentional. But she quickly pulls her face into a worried frown. “That bad?” Laurel asks, standing.

Felicity nods and then takes the chair in front of the computer. “Oh, wait, sorry. May I?” she asks, preparing to rise. She’s so used to commandeering the desktops of the technically hopeless that it’s second nature.

Laurel laughs. “Of course. But I’m not giving you my password until you tell me why I need better security.”

 _Oh, honey. Who needs passwords?_ is what she _doesn’t_ say. And just in time. She claps her hands together lightly instead. “Okay. So. Turns out ‘The Brotherhood’ is ‘Bratva’ in Russian. And they have quite a presence in Starling City.”

Laurel sits in a chair beside her. “I see.” 

" _Perimeter clear,_ " Oliver says in her ear. " _And I wish you’d waited to mention the Bratva until_ after _I made my rounds._ "

“Knew you had it covered,” she murmurs.

“I’m sorry, what?” Laurel asks.

“Sorry, just talking to myself. I do that, helps the old thinking process. I’m quite the self-conversationalist, actually...” At Laurel’s bemused expression, she continues, “Anyway! When I researched those words for you, it seemed pretty clear that your client is somehow involved with a Bratva Captain - that’s the translation for ‘Authority,’ you see. And an enforcer or bodyguard, probably? That’s the meaning for ‘Bull.’”

Laurel presses her lips together for a moment, then nods. “Yes, that makes sense with what she told me... and explains why she was so afraid to talk.” Then she gestures toward her computer screen. “Do you really think they can access my files?”

 _Certain of it. Either they are or someone else is._ she thinks. “It’s completely possible, if they have a hacker in their employ.” Then she adds with a wink, “And who doesn’t these days?”

“Okay, you’ve convinced me.” Laurel reaches across Felicity to enter her password. “Do your thing.”

Felicity pulls out a flash drive and inserts it into one of the USB ports. The bug she’s about to plant will contain the malware she found earlier, and hopefully the people behind it won’t be any wiser. If not, well, then, at least she can block them from trying again. 

" _Felicity,_ " Oliver's voice buzzes, " _See if you can get her to open up about the case._ "

Felicity grins slightly—she had been about to do that very thing. Might as well make conversation to distract Laurel while she works. “So... this woman. What is she charged with?”

“Uh...”

Felicity glances at Laurel with her peripheral vision. “I’m sorry. You’re probably not allowed to tell me that, are you?”

Laurel grimaces. “No, not really. You don’t work for CNRI, you’re not law enforcement...”

" _Just your friendly neighborhood vigilante team,_ " John snarks. Felicity can imagine the eye-roll Oliver is giving him under the hood.

“Got it. I understand.” Of course, once Laurel puts her notes into the system, they will be able to see everything.

“But I really appreciate you going above and beyond like this.” 

Laurel’s sincere words give Felicity a pang of regret that she can’t be honest about everything. But Laurel works on the side of the law... Felicity? She’s getting pretty good at sliding back and forth under the fence.

“Glad to help.” The software is installed; when she gets back to the foundry, she can try to trace back the signal, and John should now be able to access the CC feed at CNRI. She opens up a folder from the flash drive and transfers over a few documents. Pointing at the icons, she says, “Here’s what I was able to research about the activities of the Bratva in Starling City.”

" _Heads’ up..._ " John says, and Oliver swears under his breath. Before she can ask, she hears a voice off to her left.

“Hey, I hope red curry’s okay, too, because I...”

Tommy Merlyn’s smile slowly drops along with the bags of take-out in his hands when he sees Felicity sitting at Laurel’s computer.

Felicity tries an awkward smile. “Uh... hi?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to van_el for stepping in on this one! And of course, innerbrat and veritas724 for continued help. ♥

Laurel turns toward Tommy’s voice with a happy smile. “Tommy! Whatever you got, I’m starving...”

Then she notices Felicity’s awkward smile and Tommy’s lack of one. There’s something she can’t read there on his face, but it almost looks like... suspicion? Why?

Tommy sets down the bags of take-out on the desk, removes his jacket. and then nods at Felicity before Laurel can introduce them. “Hello.” He doesn’t take his eyes off her as he adds in a flat, quiet voice, “I didn’t know that you two were already acquainted.”

Of course, Tommy already knows her... Laurel had forgotten that Tommy had mentioned her and Diggle with a tone of disapproval when talking about Oliver’s new circle of friends. Laurel can’t understand why—Felicity seems perfectly lovely. Is she somehow involved in the disagreement that neither Tommy nor Oliver will talk about?

“We... just met today,” Felicity explains, a tad nervously.

Laurel comes to her feet, standing between Tommy and Felicity. She says, holding Tommy’s eyes, “Oliver introduced us.” She dares him to challenge her on it.

Tommy breaks eye contact first, his lips twitching in apology. “Of course.” When he looks back up, he asks blandly, “Are you helping Laurel with a case?”

Laurel relaxes a little, and steps aside. Felicity pauses, as if she’s arguing with herself on how to answer. “Yes, I... Laurel asked me for help. I like to help.” She straightens up in her chair, and peers at Tommy over the edge of her frames. “Especially when I know I can do some good.”

Tommy’s face screws up in offense, as if Felicity had just insulted his taste in ties. “Some _good_ , huh?”

“Yes,” Laurel affirms with a frustrated huff. “And she’s been amazing so far.” 

Felicity blushes, opening and closing her mouth a couple of times. “Amazing?” Then she says softly, “I’m going to get a big head.”

“Why? It’s true.” To Tommy, she says, “Without Felicity’s help, I don’t think I would have been able to make any headway on my case today.”

Tommy doesn’t sound convinced. He takes a step forward, his eyes narrowing at Felicity. “By accessing your computer?”

Felicity grimaces and shifts uncomfortably at Tommy’s suspicious glare. Laurel looks between them, trying to figure out what is going on. After a moment, she whirls on Tommy again. “You know what?” she says, throwing her hands up in the air, “I don’t know _what_ the hell is going on, but if this is about Oliver, then either tell me what happened or drop it.”

But Felicity is rising from the desk chair. “I’m sorry, Laurel. I probably shouldn’t have come down here.” She quickly threads her arm through her purse strap and heads for the door. “You should be fine now...”

“Wait!” Laurel calls after her. “Are you sure? You said I was in danger—”

“Danger?” Tommy’s beside Laurel in an instant. “Why? From what? Or whom?”

Laurel ignores him to try once more. “Felicity!”

Felicity stops, and then turns slowly back. “You _are_ still in danger.” Her voice is quiet, serious. “But now you have some protection.” She nods at the computer, then for some reason, cuts her eyes upward toward the windows. She looks back at Laurel and Tommy. “Just... be careful.” Then she spins on her heel and disappears through the doorway.

Laurel stands there a moment, not sure how to respond. Beside her, Tommy slowly sinks into a chair, letting out a heavy sigh. The sound makes her turn toward him. Arms crossed, she confronts him. “You want to tell me why you chased Felicity away? I know I said I’d wait until you were ready to tell me, but—”

“I’m sorry.” With a thumb and forefinger, he rubs at the bridge of his nose. “I overreacted.”

“Damn right you did!” But seeing him sitting there, pain and worry on his face, she softens her tone. “Why?”

He doesn’t answer her. Instead, he asks, still not looking at her, “Are you really in danger?”

She places her hand on his shoulder and waits for him to look up. She gives him a crooked smile. “When am I not these days?”

“Laurel...”

“It’s the truth, Tommy.” She takes the seat that Felicity so hastily vacated, and leans forward. “I fight for those who can’t fight for themselves. And my opponents don’t like it.”

“I know.” He sounds both proud and tired at the same time. “So... who doesn’t like it this time?”

Laurel pauses a moment. “Apparently? The Russian Mob.” Better that he knows.

Tommy goes ramrod straight, his eyes widening in alarm. “What?”

“My client is being framed for arson,” she explains, “and I just found out they’re involved.” She turns toward her computer, pulling up Sonya’s file. “I’m sorry, Tommy, but I really need to get my notes together for tomorrow.”

Tommy is undeterred, his voice tight. “Do the police know? Does your father know?”

“No, not yet,” she says, beginning to type.

“Why not?” The edge in his voice makes her turn back to him. He’s gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles are white. 

“I’m not kidding when I say I _just_ found out. My client’s English is very limited—and Felicity was helping with the translation.”

Tommy frowns in confusion. “Felicity speaks Russian?”

Laurel chuckles. “No, but she was able to point me toward a good translation app. Plus she researched a few difficult-to-translate words for me. That’s when we discovered the connection.” 

“Why didn’t you just ask...?” Tommy starts to say, then he darts his eyes toward the windows and clamps his mouth closed.

“Ask whom?” She glances toward the windows as well. Why does everyone keep looking up there?

Tommy averts his eyes. “Never mind.” He bends quickly to open the bags of Thai take-out and begins setting the containers on the desk beside him.

Laurel shakes her head. It must have something to do with Oliver again, which is quickly getting very old. He acts so strangely about it—and despite her understanding words earlier, it’s starting to hurt that he won’t open up.

He hands her a container, the green curry, keeps the red for himself, then passes over the rice. “Do...” He sounds like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Do the Russian Mob know you’re representing this woman?”

“Most likely.” At his intake of breath, she adds, “But they probably don’t know that I know about _them_. They’re good at covering their tracks.” As she spoons the curry and vegetables over her rice, she adds, “They didn’t count on me covering my _own_ tracks. With Felicity’s help.”

“Is that what she told you?”

Laurel pauses in lifting a spoonful of rice to her mouth, and sets it back down, stabbing it into the hill of rice. “That’s it!” She stands over him, fists planted on hips. “You’ve done nothing but snipe at Felicity since the moment you got here. Either tell me what’s going on right now, or go home!”

He acts as if she has just slapped him. His face flames with color, and he responds in a low growl. “I should have known you’d take his side.” Tommy stands then, yanking his jacket from the chair, and stalks toward the entrance.

“ _His_? As in Oliver?” She chases after him for a few steps, regretting her harsh words. “Tommy!” But he’s gone, the doors slamming behind him. 

She stands there, stunned. She can’t actually believe that he took her demand to leave seriously. Is the peace of the last week already gone? Hot tears sting her eyes as she hears the sound of a car peeling out as it drives away. She doesn’t even know if it’s Tommy’s car, but it might as well be.

She wipes at the tears roughly with the sleeves of her sweater. None of this is going to help her client—and she’s in a much greater mess than Laurel is with Tommy. She sits back down, and forces herself to eat the curried rice as she works. Her body is still hungry, even if it now seems like tasteless mush.

She gets out her phone to scan through the conversation she had with Sonya earlier, transcribing it to her own computer. She hopes that rewriting the words will trigger a plan of attack. She knows that she needs to prove that Sonya was framed, but she has to either A) convince a witness to come forward or B) collect enough evidence of Sonya’s involvement as a victim of human trafficking to convince a jury of her innocence.

When she gets to Sonya’s mention of ‘The American’ she pauses. What exactly does this mean? She didn’t ask Felicity to look into it, because it wasn’t exactly a translation issue—more a research issue. And she _should_ be able to see what she can find in CNRI’s database concerning the Bratva, maybe she can see if the designation is something significant.

So she sets aside her transcription to dive into some more research. She looks more deeply into role of Captain, and of a Bull. It seems Captain is a very high-ranking position, though not the highest. Sort of a... local manager in a way. Bulls are lackeys, with little power—perhaps she can convince one of them to testify? There is nothing about a position called ‘The American.’ It must be a nickname of some sort, but whose? The identities of the Captain or Captains in Starling City (she’s not sure if there is only one or more than one) are not in her database. She taps herself a reminder in her notepad app on her phone to ask her dad about it.

Though she is _not_ looking forward to the earful she is going to get from him over just _why_ she is asking after and _how_ she ever got involved in a case with the Russian Mob. Especially not after everything with the Triad and the Bertinelli clan, and Cyrus Vanch...

She shakes her head with resigned amusement, and as she does so, she realizes that diving into her work had done just what she needed, taken her mind off of the fight with Tommy. With a lighter heart, she follows a link to the web from the CNRI entry on Bratva Captains...

And gasps.

_No._

It has to be a coincidence. A mistake. 

She zooms in on the photo. Reads every bit of the information she can on the symbols and meanings. 

Maybe she’s misremembering the style, the shape. She _has_ to be. She raises a trembling hand to her mouth, horror washing over her, a horror she desperately hopes is based on false assumptions.

But it would make so much _sense_. The evasive behavior, the half-truths, the unexplained disappearances...

Is he... The American?

Her phone suddenly buzzes on the desk next to her, and she jumps in fright. The near-mate of his pectoral tattoo stares back at her from her computer monitor as she glances down to see the very name of the man who has stunned her to the core.

Oliver Queen.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June is here! I should be updating more frequently — every 3-7 days for a while. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented, bookmarked and kudo'd. Your feedback gives a writer life!

Felicity escapes outside, the sudden blare of street noise assaulting her. But it’s sweet respite from Oliver’s insistent questions in her ear and Tommy’s suspicious glares. She had to get out of the room, and fast. Once she’s around the corner, she leans against the bricks to catch her breath.

“ _Felicity? Answer me! What’s wrong?_ ” 

She has a feeling she’s going to find herself face-to-face with His Hooded Broodiness in a moment if she doesn’t answer. “I’m fine. Just... I couldn’t stay in there. I didn’t want to let something slip by accident.”

The line is quiet for a long moment. Then John reassures her, “ _I’m sure you would have been fine._ ”

She’s not so sure. She’s often pictured herself going undercover for the team, but in her daydreams it’s always strangers, people who don’t know her face, won’t remember her later. Like the auction and the slinky gold dress, but with less explosive jewelry. This time is different—this is Laurel and Tommy. Her inconvenient awkward babbling could wreck everything. “Better safe than sorry.”

Oliver chimes in. “ _Agreed._ ” Felicity frowns. He didn’t have to agree so quickly.

“Anyway... I got the software loaded before I had to flee.” She starts walking down the alley, toward her car stashed around the corner. “I wanted to get her phone, too, but...”

“ _Do you think it’ll be enough?_ ” John asks.

“It should be.” She hopes, anyway. “Whoever snuck the malware onto her computer in the first place won’t be able to see what Laurel is doing now, and we’ll be able to track her for ourselves, make sure she doesn’t stumble onto something that could get her killed.”

“ _So far, no sign of anyone watching her around the building._ ” Oliver doesn’t sound that reassured. “ _But I will stay here until she leaves for the night, just in case. Dig, what are Laurel and Tommy talking about?_ ”

“ _What do you think?_ ” John’s sardonic tone comes across the line loud and clear.

“ _Humor me._ ”

“ _Well, your lawyer friend and your ex-best friend are disagreeing about you, Oliver. I don’t know how you got Laurel back on your side, and Tommy hasn’t given up your secret, but..._ ”

“He’s not happy I came to see her.” Felicity wishes she had known Tommy would be there. It’s going to be hard enough to keep Laurel safe without his well-intentioned interference.

“ _Bingo._ ” After a moment’s pause, John adds, “ _Whoa. Felicity, out of sight. Tommy’s leaving the building. In a hurry._ ”

Felicity ducks behind a dumpster. A second later, she wishes she hadn’t. She holds back a retch at the putrid stink of piss. How lucky to find a vagrant’s private bathroom! Ugh. She hears the rev of an engine, and the screech of tires, but she still waits until all is quiet again, or as quiet as The Glades can be, before she stands. “Ew, ew, ew...” 

“ _What is it?_ ”

Felicity shudders. She tells John, “Have the Febreze ready when I get back.”

Her car isn’t far, thank god. She fishes her keys out of her purse as she walks. “I’m heading for _Verdant_. Be there in five minutes.”

Her car is still where she left it, which is not always the case in The Glades. Not that she couldn’t get it back—she pities the thief who tried to steal from her, _and_ their future credit rating—but she doesn’t need the trouble right now.

“ _Call for Oliver Queen,_ ” John says as she’s getting into the driver’s seat. Oliver doesn’t usually take his personal cell phone out with him when he’s wearing the green. “ _Tommy._ ”

“ _Let it go to voicemail,_ ” Oliver growls.

“ _You sure you wanna do that?_ ”

“I’d take it if I were you, John can patch it through the comms,” Felicity suggests. Oliver likes to ignore the ‘Tommy Trouble’ as she secretly calls it. But he really can’t. That is a bomb just _waiting_ to explode. Metaphorically. She hopes.

“ _Fine._ ” 

Felicity mutes her end as the call picks up. Oliver answers, falsely cheerful. “ _Tommy, hey..._ ” 

“ _Don’t ‘hey’ me, Oliver. I know you’re on the roof of CNRI._ ”

Felicity winces. She knew her little window-ward glance was too obvious.

“ _I..._ ”

“ _What the_ hell _is your problem, sending Felicity over to hack Laurel’s computer?_ ”

Oliver drops the denials. “ _It’s to protect her, Tommy. When we learned the Russian Mob was involved in her case, we decided to take steps._ ”

Tommy’s silent for a beat. Then he asks, “ _So they really are involved? It’s not just a cover for something else?_ ” He adds bitterly, “ _Not that you would tell me._ ”

“ _I swear to you, it’s real. Her client is somehow involved with a Mob Captain. We don’t know how yet, but we’re trying to find out._ ”

“ _So you can use him for target practice._ ” It’s not a question.

This time Oliver is silent before speaking. Quietly, he says, “ _No._ ”

“ _Oh, that’s just great,_ ” Tommy says angrily. “ _You’ll turn lackeys into pincushions, but an actual criminal threat, you’ll just let go?_ ”

She’s never heard Tommy like this before, so full of righteous indignation. She supposes that Oliver’s fondness for the friendship they once had prevents him from fighting back.

“ _It’s complicated, Tommy._ ”

Tommy laughs humorlessly. “ _It always is, isn’t it?_ ”

“ _Tommy,_ ” Oliver says, and Felicity can hear him draw on every ounce of persuasion he has, “ _I promise you, all of this is to keep her safe. If the Bratva don’t see her as a threat, they’ll leave her alone._ ”

“ _They had better._ ” If she didn’t know differently, she would have thought that growl had come from Oliver. Tommy hangs up.

Felicity doesn’t unmute her comm right away, feeling extra awkward about listening in. So she keeps driving, holding her breath at the stink still on her shoes, waiting out the silence. She can see the _Verdant_ sign up ahead; she’ll be downstairs in just a few minutes.

So John is the first to speak. “ _Oliver?_ ”

“ _I’m here._ ”

“ _Uh... you okay?_ ”

There’s a sound that might be a sigh. “ _I will be if we can protect Laurel from the Bratva._ ”

“ _Looks like you might need to protect the Bratva from Laurel. One particular Bratva member—you._ ”

Felicity unmutes in time to say “What?” in unison with Oliver.

“ _Looks like she’s pulled up an image that looks like—as best I can tell by zooming in—the Bratva tattoo on your chest._ ”

Felicity pulls into a space at the back of the club, and turns off the engine with a yank of her keys. “That tattoo connects you to the Bratva?” She’s seen his three tattoos during every shirtless workout, but she'd just assumed they were the kind pretty boys with too much money get without knowing their meaning. She's going to have to grill him on the others when this danger is past, as much as he'll fight it. Even as many weeks as they’ve been working together, specifics about ‘The Island’ are practically taboo. “I can’t believe something like that is online!” She punches in the security code to the back door and pelts down the corridor to the Arrow Cave’s entrance. “I’ve got to scrub it from the ‘net! I mean, seriously, you haven’t exactly hidden it from view. How many other people have seen it, Oliver?”

“ _Not many. I—_ ”

“You’ve got to distract her while I take care of this!” She kicks off her shoes—those things are vagrant-scented toast now; they were her favorite pair of brown flats!—and takes the stairs two at a time. John moves out of the way of the bank of computers as she slides into her chair. “Make a ruckus outside! Call her! Something!”

Oliver’s voice is much calmer than hers when he asks, “ _How much time do you need?_ ”

She talks as she types, trying not to panic. “Five, maybe ten. I can set-up an automated scrubber for the image, once I get rid of the one Laurel’s looking at. Felicity out.” She yanks the earbud out and places it on the desk. She needs total focus, and John can pass on whatever is important.

“Putting you through, Oliver,” John says.

She narrows her focus down to just the screens in front of her, opening the link to Laurel’s computer to clone her monitor on one of Felicity’s. The image of the tattoo on the screen isn’t _exactly_ the same one, the design seems slightly different, but it’s close enough to make her blink. 

She sets to work finding images of tattoos that might make a convincing replacement. She can’t just erase the image from Laurel’s screen, or Laurel will be even _more_ suspicious. There are a couple with multi-point stars and Cyrillic characters that might do the trick. She decides on one, only hesitating a moment before swapping it out. She doesn’t have the luxury of time to create a photoshopped version. The screen blinks slightly during the change. She hopes Laurel is turned away from the monitor at that moment, or none of this will have helped.

Then she sets up her image searchbot to find and replace all instances with the new one. Finally, she gets into the changelog of the wiki entry where Laurel found the original image and spoofs the change date.

As she hits enter, she turns to John and locks eyes with him. With a tiny nod, she mouths, “Done,” vaguely wondering what story Oliver was spinning while talking to Laurel.

Felicity slumps back in her chair. She closes her eyes and waits for the thumping of her heart to settle, and the adrenaline rush to slow. “God, that was tense.”

“Felicity.” She opens her eyes and sees John sitting beside her. “He ended the call.”

Felicity turns her attention to the CC Feed, where Laurel is sitting staring at the new image quietly. Laurel right-clicks, and saves it. Then she logs off, places her phone in her bag, and starts to clean up the take-out. “Is she leaving?”

“Looks like.” Of Oliver, John asks, “You going to follow her home?”

Felicity taps the button to feed the sound through her computer speakers as well as the comms. “ _Yes. If I find anything amiss there, I’ll let you know._ ” Then his comm goes silent.

“Wait, did she ask him about it? What did he tell her?”

“He blew it off as a cruel joke that one of his tormentors played on him.”

Felicity is surprised—she thought he was still telling people he was alone on that island. She wonders if she’ll ever get the full truth about it. “Hope she believed him.”

Felicity spends the next hour or so going through Laurel’s files on Sonya Larina. She gets the basic gist of the case through the deposition, the evidence, and the portion of Laurel’s meeting that she transcribed before she found the image of the tattoo. But it stops in the middle of a sentence. What had caused Laurel to stop, mid-transcription, and look further into Bratva Captains? Did she get a name? Something Felicity can use to track down the culprit? For the second time that night, she really wishes she had been able to bug Laurel’s phone. She rubs at the bridge of her nose.

John looks up from his station. “Rough going?”

Felicity shakes her head. “Not really. Just... you know how Charles Xavier would get these blinding headaches when he was trying to read too many minds at once?”

John raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“X-Men. There were like, a ton of movies, even.” His continued confusion makes her blow out a breath. “He was a telepath. Anyway, it’s like that except the opposite problem. I wish I knew what was going through Laurel’s head right now.”

John laughs. “You and Oliver both.”

“I could use a direct line into Oliver’s head right now as well! I can’t do any more with this stuff. Oliver has to look at these files himself.” Him and his mysteriously-gained Bratva membership and knowledge. She glances up to the top of the stairs, where the club is in full swing. “Do you know where...?”

He follows her gaze. “What?”

She looks down at her bare-stockinged feet. “I’d go myself, but...” She grins hopefully over at him. “Do you know where Oliver keeps the good wine?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, I guess sometimes an update will come in two days? :)

Laurel watches the phone ring on the desk, paralyzed with fear. Her world feels tilted on its axis. Is Oliver Queen—the man she grew up with, the man she loved, the man who broke her heart, the man who might be her best friend in the world—a criminal? 

She looks at the phone again, buzzing against the scratched-up wood—how many times has it rung? Her inertia breaks, and she snatches it up. “He-hello? Oliver?”

“ _Hey, Laurel. How are you doing?_ ” His voice is light, full of easy friendship. Can someone fake that? Can _he_ fake that? 

“I’m...” What is she going to say? She blinks her eyes rapidly several times, trying to get herself together. “...okay. Just busy. Distracted. By my case.” That is mostly true.

“ _Oh?_ ” he sounds interested, but not overly so. “ _Was Felicity able to help with that?_ ”

Laurel looks back at her computer screen, at the image of the Bratva tattoo which is turning her inside out. “You know about that?” How much _did_ he know? Did he send her over?

“ _She mentioned she talked to you today._ ”

“Really?” She struggles to keep her voice even. “You guys are closer than I thought.”

Oliver chuckles. “ _We talk. She’s my... she’s my friend._ ”

Friend? Or something else? Earlier that day, Laurel could have sworn she saw stirrings of something deeper than friendship. But now she wonders, are they bound by something more sinister? Is Felicity part of the Mob, too?

She must be silent longer than she means to be, because Oliver speaks again. “ _Just like you are. I’m glad you two got to meet._ ”

“Me, too.” But inside, Laurel starts to worry. Just what did Felicity put on her computer? What if there was really no trojan there at all before? Maybe Felicity put one _on_ instead. She hates that she has all these suspicions, especially about someone she just met and hit it off with. Her heart sinks—is her friendship with Oliver a lie as well?

It’s too much.

She’s not the kind of person who can let her suspicions go. She’s too much like her father that way. It’s why she became a lawyer—to ferret out injustice where she can. And if Oliver is this thing—a mobster—and if Oliver is ‘The American’... she has to find out, for her client’s sake.

And if she’s honest with herself, for _her_ sake.

She can only hope that there’s enough real about their friendship that Oliver will tell her the truth. “Oliver... if I ask you something, would you answer me truthfully?”

“ _If I can._ ” 

It will have to be enough. She hopes her heart is a better judge than a lie detector, because they both know he can get around that. “Your tattoo... what does it mean?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “ _Which tattoo?_ ”

Which tattoo? She only remembers the one... “On your chest? Looks like a multi-point star?”

“ _Oh... I don’t actually know._ ”

“Really?” How could he not know? She presses him—he won’t get off this easily. “Well, how did you even get it? Or any of them? You didn’t have tattoos before... before you disappeared.”

“ _Yeah, um..._ ” His tone starts to shut down. “I... really would rather not talk about it.”

“It... happened on the island, right?”

He’s silent. At any other time, she would let it go, but she can’t.

“Oliver...”

“ _Yes. You remember I told you there were... others? Other people?_ ”

Vividly. The day she peeled back his shirt to see the scars decorating his body is burned in her memory. “They did this?”

“ _A cruel joke. Not only was it painful, but... I—_ ” He cuts off, his voice breaking.

She closes her eyes, hating herself for opening this wound. But a wound must be cleaned to heal properly. “I know it’s hard but, please, go on. It’s important that I know.”

“ _I... I think they were hoping that the wrong people would see them, and would... kill me over it._ ”

Eyes still shut, Laurel lifts a shaking hand to her mouth in horror. “How awful. Is that how you got some of those scars?”

“ _Some. Luckily they stopped short of killing me, once they figured out I was a patsy._ ” 

Laurel wonders if she’ll ever learn the whole truth about each terrible mark on his body. But for now, she feels glad she’s learned just a little more about his time away than before. Maybe she can help him cope in some small way. “Thank you, Oliver, for telling me. Can I ask one more question?”

“ _Sure._ ” 

She takes a deep breath, and just asks. “The people who were angry over this particular tattoo... Were they Russian?”

“ _Could have been—I never understood a word they said. Wait—_ ” he stops, a dawning comprehension filtering through his voice, “ _—is this about the Russian Mob? The case Felicity is helping you with?_ ”

“Yes.” She wants to believe him. His story sounds so feasible, matches with the kind of person he was when he sailed away on the Queen’s Gambit five years ago. But she decides to lay out what she knows, to see how he responds. “The symbol is the mark of a Captain of the Russian Mob.”

“ _What?_ ” he answers, and the stunned gasping sounds he makes sound real. “ _Oh, oh my god... wow. I was lucky to get out alive, then._ ”

“Very lucky.” If Oliver is faking this, he’s very convincing. She starts to open her mouth to suggest that he find someone to remove the tattoo, and soon, when she looks again at the image on the screen. It’s... different. 

She doesn’t know how. It’s still a multi-point star, symbols she can’t read intertwined. She blinks a couple of times, makes sure she’s not just worn out from an emotional evening.

No. That is definitely different. Different from Oliver’s tattoo. Different from what she remembers seeing only minutes ago. She holds back a gasp of indignation. Her earlier suspicions about Felicity, fueled by Tommy’s reaction to her, are back again. 

“ _Laurel? Are you still there?_ ”

She starts at Oliver’s voice. Tamping down her growing outrage, she says, “Yes, sorry. I think I’m going to call it a night, pick this up in the morning.” She needs to end this call, get her thoughts together, decide how to proceed, before she blasts him. He can’t know what she suspects, not yet. “Talk later?”

“ _Sure. Have a good night._ ”

“You too.” She ends the call, her heart aching with hurt and anger.

Laurel stares at the new image for several seconds, trying to memorize anything she can about it. Then she saves it to her hard drive, because that’s what she would do in any other circumstance. If she’s being watched digitally, she can’t behave any differently than normal.

Time to go home, like she told Oliver. But that doesn’t mean she won’t make any detours.

* * *

Laurel gets into the car, her senses on high alert. After checking all of her mirrors, she pulls out slowly, heading on to the main thoroughfare, just like she normally would to go home. At her first left turn, she keeps her eyes on the rear view mirror as much as the road in front of her. A couple other cars make the turn with her—nothing unusual that she can tell. But she can’t relax. Not yet.

There’s a side street just to the right, not on her route. At the last moment she makes the turn, her tires screeching in protest. She floors the gas; if she can make it to the end of this short street and turn again, then she can double-back to her actual intended destination. Luckily, she knows The Glades pretty well.

A dark sedan makes the same screeching turn, accelerating to catch up with hers. Laurel’s heart starts to pound. She _is_ being followed. And they also seem to know The Glades.

She grips the steering wheel tighter, trying to plan two or three alternate routes to lose her tail. She takes another screeching left, then a right immediately, blowing through a stop sign with gritted teeth. A couple guys loitering on the street yell out obscenities.

The car stays with her. It’s gaining.

Laurel punches the Bluetooth button on her car’s steering wheel. “ _Please say a command,_ ” it drones.

“Call Dad!” she shouts, screeching around another corner. The car’s high beams are blinding her through the rearview.

“ _Dialing... Brad..._ ”

Dammit—she went out with the guy a total of two times, why does she still have him in her contacts? She punches the end button with fervor, tries again. “Call 911!” It’s too late in the game to do anything else. She takes another corner, praying that she doesn’t run grill first into a diesel truck.

“ _Dialing... 9-1-1..._ ” she hears as her car nearly goes up on two wheels.

It slams back down just as the call connects. “ _911\. What is your emergency?_ ”

She looks in the rearview mirror again. Maybe she can make out the license plate if it gets close enough. She draws breath to speak...

Then a motorcycle comes careening out of nowhere and slams into the car tailing her. Laurel screams in surprise and shock. It goes into a partial spin before slamming into a light pole with an explosion of sparks. Just as she hits the gas again, she sees the helmeted motorcycle rider leap from his bike to wrench the passenger side door open.

“Oh my god.” Was that... The Hood?

“ _Excuse me, ma’am, are you all right?_ ”

She had almost forgotten the 911 operator was on the line. “Yes... yes, I’m fine... I’m sorry. There’s been a terrible accident around the...” She glances at the street number on the window of a pawn shop closed for the night. “...the 500 block of Simone street. Car slammed into a street light.”

“ _Thank you, ma’am, we’ll send someone out right away._ ”

She doesn’t let up the speed until she’s well away from the crash, and sure there’s not a second car after her. Did Oliver send the guy after her? She can’t believe he would do something like this—has she really misread him this badly? By the time she reaches her destination, she has to peel her shaking hands from the steering wheel.

She takes a deep breath, willing her heart to slow. She needs to stay clear headed. Panicking will only make her sloppy. When she’s gotten a hold of herself, she gets out of the car, and goes inside.

She sees his salt and pepper hair peeking over the edge of his cubicle before he sees her. “Dad?” she calls out, and he stands and turns toward her both pleased and concerned, the way only a father can be.

“Laurel? What brings you to the station so late?” He gives her a quick hug, then he pulls back and looks her over. “Something’s wrong. What is it?” 

Of course he sees right through her. “I... Someone was following me, but I lost him.”

He frowns deeply, all the menace of a protective father behind his words. “Who was following you? I’ll nail the son of a bitch to the wall.” 

“I don’t know for sure, I only suspect.” Then she can’t help but smirk. “And I think the vigilante took care of that for you. Except it was more of a light pole than a wall.” At his discomfiture, she adds, “I already called it in to 911.”

“Hmph.” He puts an arm around her shoulders and leads her to sit in his desk chair. Pulling up another chair, he sits and takes her hands in his. “So who do you suspect? The Hood doesn’t usually waste his time on small potatoes.”

“The Bratva.”

The shock on his face could not be more plain. “What? Tell me you haven’t run afoul of the Russian Mob!”

“It’s a case I was assigned.”

“The woman you interviewed here earlier?”

Laurel nods. “I was researching some details of my client’s story... and I stumbled upon some pretty damaging information. I think...” She looks down at the floor and swallows. Should she tell her dad her suspicions? Or wait until she has more proof? “...they would rather silence me than let it come to light.” 

“What?” His eyes seem to bore into hers, but she resists. Her dad already has a grudge against Oliver. She has to wait until she has some real proof. Once she... if she gets it... she’ll let her dad throw the book at him. 

“I can’t say. Let me get some proof first. In fact, can I look at whatever you have here on the Bratva?”

He looks to both sides of his cubicle before he types in the password of his computer. “Here. See what we have and email it to yourself.” He squeezes her shoulder. “I’m gonna go set up a security detail for your place.” He rises to leave.

“Wait!” Laurel hisses, and he stops, mid-step. “I’d... I’d rather not use the computer for this, if I can avoid it. Anything in the paper files?”

“Goin’ old school, eh?” He smiles and pats her shoulder. “I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Laurel opens her door, juggling her purse and an armful of files with her keys. After she shuts her door and locks the deadbolt, she gingerly sets the files on the table. Her dad found quite a bit; she has a long night ahead of her still.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a figure, and she reacts, pure instinct taking over. Swinging her purse like a mace, and palming her keys to use as a blunt knife, she kicks out at the figure, connecting with his chest and head. 

“Laurel! N—!”

It’s only after he’s prostate on the floor, holding his head in agony, that she sees she’s taken out...Tommy. “Oh my god!” she cries, dropping her makeshift weapons and crouching by his side. “I’m so sorry! I thought you were...”

“Who? The Starling City Comets?” Tommy sits up with a wince. “Ohhhh.”

“It’s a long story. Better saved for—” She sees a trickle of blood coming from his lip. “Wow, I really clobbered you...”

“Criminals beware.” He chuckles. “And I promise, I was just waiting here so I could apologize...” He licks at the blood. It’s going to be swollen in the morning.

“Oh, Tommy.” She knows she needs to apologize to him just as much. But in a minute. She puts her arm under his shoulder and gets him back onto his feet. “Let me get you some ice for that.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wouldn't be the same without My Magnificent Alpha, van_el. And veritas724 continues to rock. :)

John doesn’t even have the cork pulled when Oliver’s voice suddenly rings out over the comms. “ _Felicity, can you pull the traffic camera feeds around Maxwell Street?_ ” His voice is tense, the steady growl of his motorcycle engine playing an accompaniment below.

Felicity’s hands leap to the keyboard, just barely avoiding knocking the stem of her sadly still-empty wine glass—wine time will have to wait. “I can try... what’s happening?”

“ _Laurel’s being followed._ ”

Felicity twists her lips at his terse reply. John sets down the bottle, asking, “You got a lock on who?”

“ _No._ ” The engine revs in the background. “ _But I’m going to find out._ ”

“We can probably assume it’s whoever bugged Laurel’s computer in the first place.” Felicity is almost into Starling City’s traffic camera servers now. It’s too much of a coincidence not to be.

“ _Probably,_ ” Oliver says. “ _And if it’s the Bratva... You have the feed yet, Felicity?_ ”

“Bypassing the firewall now...” A couple more keystrokes, and... “In! Where are they?”

“ _Laurel’s making a left onto Grell Avenue, her usual route home. I’m following at a safe distance. The car is a dark-colored late model sedan, can’t make out the plate from here._ ”

Felicity accesses the camera at the light, thankful that one exists. The Glades has too many dark spots as far as digital eyes and ears are concerned. That’s been good for the Hood, but unfortunately, it’s also good for the criminal underworld. She zooms in on Laurel’s car, then the two waiting at the light behind her. There’s a red hatchback, and then the sedan Oliver must be referring to. The windows are darkened—she can’t even make out whether there are one, two or more bodies in the car—and the plate...? Blank. “Uh oh. They’re serious. No plates.”

“ _So am I,_ “ Oliver says, the most unnecessary statement ever. When is he not?

The cars make the turn, and the hatchback between Laurel’s and her tail peels off in another direction. Then they’re out of frame, and the next camera isn’t until the next major intersection, at Lemire Street, three blocks ahead. “Not in range again until Lemire.”

“You better get closer, then,” John suggests.

“ _Too dangerous. If this_ is _Bratva, they’re going to have at least one vehicle as backup, maybe two, driving in parallel to their target. Wait—_ ”

“What?” Felicity asks.

“ _Laurel sees them. She took a sudden right at Klein. Sedan in pursuit._ ”

“Go Laurel!” Felicity murmurs with a fist pump. John gives her a side-eyed smirk and she shrugs. “The damsel in distress thing is so last century.”

Oliver ignores her commentary. “ _Try to keep her in cams the best you can. Heading onto a side street to intercept._ ”

“Got it.”

Felicity starts pulling up anything she can, ATM cameras, outside security cameras—but so many are broken, stolen, or were just plain never installed. She picks up Laurel again at the corner of Adams and O’Neil.

Laurel’s car swerves erratically into frame and out again, the sedan in closer pursuit. “Oliver! The car’s gaining on her! Whatever you’re planning—”

There a sudden ‘oof’ and a shout from Oliver’s line. Then a groan, a crack and a crash. 

“Oliver! Are you okay?”

She can suddenly hear the tinny sound of another pair of voices, speaking in Russian. “ _Commandeered the second tail’s bike—listening in through the helmet Bluetooth. Definitely Bratva._ ”

Images of a violent bike-jacking flash through her head. “What happened to the rider?” she asks quietly.

“ _Gave his life for the Brotherhood,_ ” he says without emotion.

Felicity shudders. Add one more to the death toll. Oliver would try to convince her it’s necessary, but will it ever be easy? 

She can’t get distracted with morbid thoughts now, Laurel’s still being chased. She opens her recording software with a click and starts to record the Russian audible in the helmet. Even if she doesn’t understand it, she can save it for Oliver to analyze later.

“ _There’s only the sedan. Two men inside from the voices. Heading to intercept._ ”

“Good,” John says. “Probably figured they only needed two vehicles to go after one woman alone.”

“They didn’t figure on facing Starling City’s guardian archer.” Felicity catches Laurel’s car again, swerving onto Simone Street. “She just turned onto Simone, Oliver!”

“ _In my sights._ ” She sees the sedan streak through frame and then there’s a ear-piercing crash over the speakers, metal screeching and electrical static.

John pushes forward to get a better look, but there’s nothing in view. “Oliver!”

They can hear heavy breathing and panicked shouts of Russian. “I cut them off.” Oliver tells them. Then they hear the sound of a gunshot and glass breaking.

“What about Laurel?” Felicity answers her own question when she catches Laurel’s car careening away through a red light several blocks away.

“ _She got away._ ” His voice is coming through the voice modulator now. “ _Erase my trail on the cameras._ ” Then he switches to angry Russian, a blood-chilling fury threading his voice.

Felicity tries to block out the noise of violence and guttural shouts coming through the comm, and turns her attention to looping the feeds. Oliver’s path mostly stayed off-camera but she checks and double checks each feed within the radius of the incident. 

It isn’t until she feels John’s gentle hand on her shoulder that she realizes how tense she is. “You want me to turn it off?”

She shakes her head once. “Oliver might need it later.”

He removes his hand with a short nod. “You let me know if you change your mind.”

She presses her eyelids shut and grimaces. “Okay.” Then she does one last triple-check, just as she hears one of the voices cut off with a gurgle. Her fingers freeze over the keys. Another grunt of pain, then silence.

After a few tense moments, Oliver’s voice comes across the line, cold and low. “ _Dig, I’m going to need a pick-up. I’m heading toward the Foundry on foot. Use the tracker. Felicity?_ ” 

“Yes?” She tries to keep her voice from shaking.

“Find Laurel.” His line goes dead.

John’s out of his seat and pulling his jacket before he stops and pierces Felicity with a concerned look. “Be back as soon as I can. I’ll stay on comms if you need anything.”

“Sure, sure.” She gives him her best thumbs’ up. Oliver needs him. Who knows how much of that overheard violence is stiffening his green leathers as they speak? Felicity turns her attention back to the traffic cameras, tracing Laurel’s route. It’s meandering—she must have been making sure there weren’t any others following her. But she doesn’t circle around to her apartment. Instead, she heads to the most logical place—where Felicity herself might have gone before she joined Team Arrow—the police station. Her father’s to be specific.

She opens a line to John and Oliver both. “Found her.”

John answers. “ _Found_ him. _We’re circling around to retrieve the bike._ ”

Oliver’s voice sounds tired when he chimes in. “ _Where is she?_ ”

“Detective Lance’s precinct.”

Oliver sighs. She can’t tell if it’s relief or exhaustion. “ _Good. She’s safer there than at home._ ”

Felicity agrees, but she still asks, “Do you... do you want me to try to hack into the SCPD database? Get a copy of the police report?”

“ _Later. I’ve got enough to go on from my interview._ ” 

“ _It sounded... enlightening,_ ” John says.

“ _It was. I tried to make it look like an internal hit—_ ”

“ _Which it was, in a manner of speaking,_ ” John points out.

“ _—rather than the Hood. If the Bratva connects me with the vigilante..._ ” There’s no need for Oliver to finish the sentence. They all know what a disaster that would be. 

“I have a copy of your interrogation on the computer—the audio anyway,” Felicity adds. “You know, if you need to review it under less stressful circumstances.”

Oliver’s answer is quiet, regretful. “ _I’m sorry you had to hear that._ ”

She isn’t sure how to respond. It’s not ‘okay,’ exactly, especially since she wants to see him move away from enquire-then-execute, unless the circumstances are dire. But aren’t they? 

So she glosses it over for now. “What’s our next move?”

“ _For you? Go home._ ”

“What?” She sits up straight in her chair. “Are you sure?”

“ _Like you said, need to go over the information I got under ‘less stressful circumstances.’ Make a decision about how to proceed._ “

“What about Laurel?”

“ _What about her? She’s at the station, Detective Lance will probably set her up with police protection... and you can get some well-deserved rest._ ”

“So just... go home.”

“ _Yes._ ” 

His no-further-arguments tone rankles a bit, but then her eyes light upon the still-unopened bottle of wine. She stands and grabs it by the neck. “Fine. See you tomorrow, then.”

“ _Good night, Felicity._ ” John says.

“Good night.”

Felicity reaches for her coat and hangs it over her shoulders. But the moment her bare-stockinged feet touch the floor, she realizes that she’s going to need a pair of shoes to replace the ruined ones. She shrugs. Maybe there’s a nice pair of size seven’s in the lost-and-found under all that underwear.

* * *

Felicity nurses her second cup of coffee, staring blankly at her work monitor. Yesterday seemed about eight hours longer than usual. It was a good thing she’d gone home; she’d fallen asleep halfway through both her glass of red and her DVR’d episode of _Orphan Black_. 

Lifting her glasses and running a hand across her face, she looks at the list of work requests for the day. Just a bunch of everyday annoying tasks: printer error on the fifth floor, reset password for a middle manager on the eleventh, no network connection on the fourteenth. All things she can do in her sleep, which is good, because she’s practically there right now.

She bets Oliver is bright-eyed and salmon-laddered just about now. No telling how late he was up dealing with the fallout from the car chase. She doesn’t even know what kind of fallout there is, other than making sure Laurel stays safe and protecting his hooded identity from the Bratva. She’s tempted to access the files at the Arrow Cave and run it through translation herself...

She stops. As tempting as it is, she really should keep her mitts (lacquered purple and green today) off of it. Oliver will tell her when he’s ready to put a plan to action.

“Saddle up, and move on out,” she tells herself as she makes her weary way to the first stop on the trail. When she waves hello to Donna, the receptionist on the fifth, her reaction is less yay-the-cavalry and more ugh-why-weren’t-you-here-ten-minutes-ago-better-yet-psychic-so-it-was-already-fixed. She’s tempted to block all of Donna’s social media and shopping sites for the next month, but Felicity’s sure she’ll have to hear about that, too, never mind that no one is supposed to be playing at non-work-related tasks during the work day.

Felicity’s the biggest culprit there is. She’s just better at hiding her tracks.

As mind-numbing as all of it is, she finds herself at the last task on the list—on her hands and knees under a desk, reconnecting a bumped cable—at only ten AM. Her mind wanders back to last night, wondering if Laurel’s okay. She’s sure she is, or undoubtedly she would have heard. But as good as it felt to help her with the case, and be part of the team that saved her life... the worse she feels about all the deception. How does Oliver do it? He says it’s _because_ he still cares about Laurel that he has to keep his double life secret.

He keeps so many things hidden, even from her and John, two people who know him best these days. And if pressed, he would answer the same. He does it to protect them all.

She’s back at her desk by ten-thirty, swiping around on her tablet out of sheer boredom—a pretty toy but not good for much else—when a pop-up blinks at the bottom corner of her monitor. She sets down her tablet, eyebrow rising. She clicks the notification... and a slow, devilish smile grows across her face.

“Aw, _yeah_.” Just what she needed to pass the time—some noobish hacker wannabe trying to get into the Queen Consolidated intranet. Time to play one of her favorite games: Whack-A-Hack. 

Okay, she only uses that name in her mind, but whatever.

She traces the IP address back to its source. It’s been spoofed to come from a computer within the company, though it clearly isn’t. “Smooth,” she says, impressed. Maybe not so noobish after all. 

But—it’s not that tough to grab and edit the logs, spoofing the IP address on the target machine and the source machine using a proxy or a Virtual Networking Client... it’s another thing entirely to change the records at the network service provider. That takes a lot more time and skill to pull off. And this little sneak has neither.

“Bam!” she says, making a hammer motion in the air. She cuts the attack off clean. Then she pockets her imaginary hammer in her imaginary Subspace Suitcase.

Felicity glances at the time. Only ten-forty-five. Ugh. It’s not even late enough to knock off for an early lunch. Too bad that was... so... easy...

_Oh crap._

Felicity bolts up in her chair, panic-stricken. Last night, when she was trying to scrub the tattoo photo, she was in such a rush that _she_ never took the time to truly cover her tracks at the ISP. And with going through Laurel’s files, and helping Oliver race after the Bratva men trailing Laurel...

She drops her head onto her desk. “How could I be so stupid?” Any hacker worth their salt could have traced her back to the Foundry computers regardless of how strong her security. And now that they have confirmation that the Bratva are indeed watching...

She’s just made herself a target. And Oliver by association.

Felicity fumbles out the phone she uses just for Team Business, calling Oliver’s secure line. It rings and rings, ending on just a simple beep. “Oliver! I think I screwed up, no, I _know_ I screwed up. Call me back right away!”

She starts to pace as she waits. Why didn’t she just take the time to create a website, spoofed to be older, that contradicted or discredited the photo Laurel found? It would have been the perfect Bratva tactic—they might even have possibly believed it to be the work of one of their own.

When five minutes pass without a return call, she tries John next. It also goes through to voicemail. It’s the middle of the morning. What the heck are they up to?

Skidding into her chair, she activates the tracking software for Oliver’s boot. It pings at Verdant. If he’s there, why isn’t he answering? So she tries Oliver’s personal cell phone. To her surprise, it’s not at home. It’s at an address in The Glades, one she doesn’t recognize.

A quick check against the online city maps reveals it to be... a machine shop. _The_ machine shop—the Bratva machine shop. Is he there by choice?

Or under duress?


	9. Chapter 9

Tommy sits down gingerly on the couch, holding the ice pack to his swollen lip. “I forgot how good you are in a fight.” He adds with a wince, “To my utter embarrassment.”

“Oh, Tommy...” Laurel says, sitting beside him, rubbing small circles on his back. 

She’s apologized about fifty times already—when helping him to the kitchen, when cleaning the gash, when putting on the butterfly bandage, when making the ice pack, when helping him sit back down—or maybe it just feels like fifty. She knows he’s just playing the sympathy card half-jokingly, trying to get her to smile. And normally it would work. But after a night like tonight...?

She’s held off explaining why she attacked him, but she can’t wait any longer. “Listen. About tonight, I—”

“No, Laurel. Stop apologizing. I need to apologize to you.” He lowers the ice pack and turns his soulful blue eyes on her. If he only knew how powerless they make her... “I flew _way_ off the handle about Felicity, and I shouldn’t have.”

“Maybe you—” she starts to say.

He holds up a hand, asking her to wait a bit longer. “Instead, I should have let you make your own decision about her. To tell you the truth, I don’t really know Felicity that well. We only met a few times.” Then he waits, his shoulders tense. Does he think she’s going to yell at him again?

“What I was going to say was... maybe you were right.” His eyes widen in confusion. “About Felicity,” she clarifies.

He blinks a couple of times. “What do you mean?”

“I...” She hesitates. She doesn’t want to air her unverified suspicions, but this is _Tommy_. Her boyfriend. The person who, maybe, _maybe_ , she is going to spend the rest of her life with. Do you keep secrets from that person? _Should_ you? “I’m not sure what I should say.”

“What you should say?” he asks gently, much more gently than she expected. “Or what you’re allowed to say?”

She gives him a grimacing laugh. “A little of both.”

“Well, then...” He places a hand on her knee. “Tell me only what you think you can.”

The look on his face is encouraging, accepting—that if she has to keep a secret from him, he understands. “Okay. I have a suspicion about her. And Oliver.”

His eyes suddenly drop to the floor. “Oh?” he asks in an odd voice.

Frowning at his strange reaction, she continues. “But I don’t have any real proof. I need proof before I can act on it. But if it’s true...”

“It will change everything?” His voice is quiet.

“Yes. It’s big. Something so big that it could destroy the Queen name.”

“And you want to protect him from that.”

“Him?” She sits up straight. “No. I want to protect _Thea_ , and Moira, and the company, even. But Oliver? If my suspicions are correct, then they probably don’t have anything to do with it. He’s put them in danger, and it’s not right.”

Tommy raises his eyes from the floor. “Really? I’m surprised you feel that way.” There’s something else in his expression, maybe... hope?

She doesn’t understand it. Is he actually hoping for Oliver’s downfall? What kind of fight could they possibly have had? Did... Her eyes go wide. Did Tommy find out about the Bratva? Is _that_ why he quit, why he refuses to associate with Oliver anymore? “Tommy... do you know?”

His eyes dart back down to the floor, then he sucks air through his teeth with a painful hiss. “Do I know what?”

Now she’s beginning to wonder. If Tommy knows, then maybe he’s been threatened not to tell anyone, not even Laurel. It would explain a lot of Tommy’s behavior toward Oliver, even a _mention_ of Oliver. All his worry over the time she’s been spending with Oliver and his colleagues. She tries to be vague, to protect him. “About his... secret activities.”

He stays silent, which for Laurel, is practically confirmation. “Then... I have to get proof. So I can expose him.”

Tommy stiffens, and his head jerks up. “Laurel, no! It’s too dangerous. Don’t put yourself in his sights.”

“Too late!” she says, taking both of his hands and gripping them. “Do you know why I attacked you?” She only gives him time to shake his head before continuing. “Because I was followed tonight. And I think they were following me because of what I found out about Oliver. Who knows what they would have done if they had caught me! Thank god for the vigilante.”

Tommy, who had been listening to her, face tense with worry, suddenly lets go her hands. “The vigilante?”

“Yes. He rammed the car that was following me and I was able to get safely to my dad’s precinct.” She nods out the window toward the street, where a police cruiser waits below. “There’s a protective detail watching the building tonight.”

“The vigilante saved you?” he says, seemingly stuck on that detail.

“Yes.” She chuckles. “And just when I thought he had forgotten me.”

Tommy shakes his head. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know.” It doesn’t make sense to her, either. To think, Oliver somehow joined the Russian Mob when he was supposedly on an island for five years. Was he really in Russia, instead? The whole thing defies explanation. Really, the idea that pretty boy Oliver Queen could survive against hostile forces on a tiny island in the South China Sea makes even less sense. “But that’s why I have to find out the truth. And get proof. We’re both going to be in danger until I do.”

“I know,” he says sadly. Tommy scoots over closer to her, his pant leg pressing against hers. “Sometimes...” The next words seem to pain him. “I wish Oliver had really died on that island.”

Only a few hours ago, Laurel would have gasped a shocked protest. Now... “I’m sorry I didn’t listen before. Even though you couldn’t tell me everything, I... should have listened.”

Tommy takes her hand, and his eyes watch his thumb trace a soft arc along the backside of her hand. “I know why you couldn’t.” His eyes drift back up to hers. “You always see the best in people, even the darkest ones.” He leans close, planting a soft kiss on her cheek, despite the gash on his lip. “You saw the best in me.” He hovers there, his breath warm against her skin.

She starts to argue, that no, it’s not that. She’s far too trusting. She almost allowed her feelings of friendship to blind her to a terrible truth. But Tommy’s scent, his whole presence, intoxicates her. He’s tender, safe, a rock in this storm. She turns her head to kiss him fully, and he pulls her toward him with a sigh of gratitude. 

The files cluttering the tabletop can wait until morning.

* * *

Hours later, her eyes open. She doesn’t know why... was there a noise? Is someone here, in the apartment, for real? She’s suddenly on high alert again. 

She turns her head toward Tommy, who is still asleep beside her. He shifts in his sleep, unaffected by whatever awakened her. Then she realizes, it’s her phone, buzzing quietly from her purse beside the bed. She glances at the clock. Three AM. Who would be calling this late?

Trying not to awaken Tommy, she peels back the covers and slips her feet to the floor. The phone stops vibrating before she can get it, but she sees that it’s her dad. Whatever it is must be important...

She pads into the living room, lightly shutting the bedroom door. “Dad? What’s up?” she asks when the call connects.

She can almost hear him run a hand over his stubbled face. “ _Laurel! I’m sorry, sweetheart, I just meant to leave a message._ ” 

“It’s all right. I guess I wasn’t sleeping that soundly. Kind of hard to after tonight.”

“ _I have a couple pieces of news for you... I thought you’d want to know right away—I mean, after you woke up..._ ” He clears his throat. “ _First of all, that car following you? Doesn’t look like the vigilante got them after all._ ”

“What?” She’d been so sure. “Really?”

“ _Yeah, it’s not his M.O., unless he’s switched from arrows to knives, and somehow transformed into a Russian immigrant who just arrived last month._ ”

“Oh. Mob?”

“ _Looks like. You were lucky. Thank god._ ”

She bites her lip before she asks. “And the others?”

“ _All Russian emigré, not even in the system before._ ” He pauses. “ _Two dead of knife wounds, the last a snapped neck._ ”

She sighs in relief before she realizes it. No Oliver in the car. Not that she really believed he was. If he is a Captain, then he’d have others doing his bidding, right? He probably had a solid alibi for being at Verdant tonight, anyway. “Okay. What was the other piece of news?”

“ _Your client..._ ” He hems and haws a little before continuing. “ _...she was involved in an altercation. After they put her in solitary, she... well, she’s refusing to testify now._ ”

“What?”

“ _I’m sorry, honey._ ”

“Thanks.” Laurel runs a tired hand through her hair. “After tonight, I don’t think anything about this case could surprise me.” She glances at the files on the table again. She’s awake now; she doubts she’d do anything except toss and turn. “I appreciate you letting me know right away. I’m just going to have to work twice as hard to clear her.”

“ _That’s my girl. I’d say get some sleep, but..._ ”

Laurel smiles. “Yeah... same to you, Dad. Night.”

She sets the phone down and goes into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. A large one.

* * *

“Thanks,” Laurel tells Joanna, looping the key ring over her index finger. “I’ll bring it back later, okay?”

They’ve been coworkers and friends for so long that Joanna doesn’t ask any more questions. “Before five,” she stresses, looking serious.

“I promise.” 

Joanna accepts that with a nod, turning back to her casework.

Laurel pauses before she leaves out of the back door of CNRI. After making sure no one is nearby, she pulls a long, blonde Britney Spears wig from Halloween ten years ago out of her bag, and shoves her hair under it. Adding a tight leather jacket and a choker, she hopes she looks different enough to fool the police detail out front. Then she walks calmly to the parking lot, opens Joanna’s car with the borrowed keys, and sets off for _Verdant_. She can take the disguise off once she gets there.

In poring over the files early this morning, she came to a very stark conclusion. Most of what the SCPD has is circumstantial. All the good stuff, the damaging stuff, is controlled by the FBI. She could request their help, but she isn’t ready to, not until she’s exhausted all her leads. And it occurs to her—if Oliver really is Bratva, then he _is_ her best lead.

Deep down, she can’t believe that the friendship he has shown her, the willingness to open up to her again, is all an act. If she confronts him with this, really lays it on the line, and invokes the friendship she’s sure is real—he might help her with the case. He _has_ to.

As she comes to a stop sign a couple of blocks away, she sees Oliver’s car pass on the cross street. Where is he going? Should she wait at Verdant until he returns? She makes a split second decision to follow him. 

Luckily, it’s only a few blocks before the car slows and takes a turn into a fenced-in parking lot. She passes by, unable to read the business’ sign or purpose, other than something to do with cars. She turns into the next alley down, setting Joanna’s alarm with a beep. It’s good that she already has this disguise; she slips on a pair of sunglasses to complete the look.

Once she reaches the opened gate, she surveys her surroundings. It’s definitely a garage, or something similar. Old cars and parts are stacked around the sides of a fenced-in dusty yard. A building sits at the far end, none of the heavy sliding doors raised. Maybe they deal in salvage? Or it’s a chop shop. But Oliver’s car is parked ahead, so this must be the place. What could he be doing here? There’s no one in sight, so she walks in calmly, trying desperately not to fuss with her wig, though it feels like it’s about to slip off her forehead at any moment.

She heads for the office door, a cover story half-forming in her mind. The door is ajar, revealing a counter that has seen better days, though clean, and a couple of fraying armchairs for customers. There’s no one behind the counter either. She sees a desk bell with small folded placard beside it, reading, ‘RING BELL FOR SERVICE.’

Laurel debates for a moment whether or not she should go in and ring the bell. If Oliver is in the shop, it’s not like he wouldn’t immediately recognize her, wig or no. If she keeps on her sunglasses and changes her voice...? No. That’s probably the stupidest idea ever. 

Laurel takes a deep breath and slips inside, trying not to let the door squeak. As she enters, she hears the sound of a cell phone ringtone deeper inside the shop beyond. After a moment, it cuts off, then she can hear voices, though she can’t make out the words. Taking a few more steps to reach the counter, her hand hovers over the desk bell...

She stops at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, filled with cold anger. Then she hears Oliver’s voice. Or what sounds like it. In contrast, his tone is flat, emotionless. And—her eyes widen in alarmed confirmation—he isn’t speaking English. 

She side-steps closer, she fumbles out her phone, glad she remembered to set it on silent earlier. With a shaking thumb, she taps open the translation app Felicity recommended. She sets it on text instead of voice and holds it as close to the window between the office and the shop as she can, watching the screen.

_Translation error. Please repeat, speaking clearly and loudly into the receiver._

Damn. She’s too far away for the phone to pick their conversation up. Any closer and she’ll be seen. How is she going to get proof? She shakes her head. The fact that he apparently speaks fluent Russian, after claiming not to know it at all, is going to have to be enough for now. She’ll go back to _Verdant_ , wait for Oliver there. And if he doesn’t admit he’s involved with the Bratva, despite the overwhelming evidence, she’ll just have to take her suspicions to her father. He’ll know what to do. She turns to leave, willing herself not to make a sound. 

Then she hears Oliver say Sonya’s name and then hers amidst a string of other words she can’t understand. This time, his tone sounds like a demand. Her heart nearly stops. She wishes desperately that she knew what he was saying. 

Suddenly, a cell phone rings, making her nearly jump. She hears a quiet voice. “Should I let it go to voicemail?” It’s John Diggle. Though she suspected he would be in on the whole thing, she’s disappointed that he actually is.

Oliver doesn’t answer him, instead speaking again in Russian. The voices start to come nearer. She glances at the open door to the outside. Should she make a break for it? Or stay and take her chances?

She decides to get out of there. Stuffing her phone in her pocket, she slides back through the door and out into the yard. Then with long strides, she makes a beeline for the open gate.

She’s almost there, when a voice hails her. “Miss! Can I help you?” 

She halts. It would look more suspicious if she ran away. So she turns slowly toward where the man stands. He squints toward her, wearing drab coveralls marked with a name she can’t make out through her sunglasses. She puts on an embarrassed grimace. “Oh, no thanks,” she says. “I got the wrong address. Just realized it.” She avoids wincing at her terrible attempt at a Jersey accent.

The man takes a few slow steps toward her, wiping his hands on a rag. His face relaxes into a smile. “Do you need some help? What were you trying to find?” His English is better than she expected.

“Uh... not sure,” she stalls. “I got the address in my car. Is there another auto shop around here?”

“There is one about a block west. Kirby Auto Repair. Is that it?”

She laughs, an annoying titter that sounds fake to her ears. “Oh, yeah. I think that’s it. Which way is it?”

He places a hand on her back and guides her to the curb next to the gate. Her muscles tense, but he simply points down the street, saying, “Down that way, turn right at the corner.”

“Thanks, you’re a sweetheart.” She flashes him a wide smile and starts off in that direction, taking mincing steps. Once she turns the corner, she picks up the pace—her car is parked all the way around the other side.

Just as she turns another corner, she feels a prickle between her shoulder blades, so she glances behind her. A couple of guys are ambling behind, talking to each other. They don’t seem to be focused on her, but she can’t take chances. She starts to speed walk toward the next turn, wishing she’d decided to wear something other than heels. Before she turns again into the alley where she parked, she peeks over her shoulder. The two men have turned the same corner, and now are starting to jog.

They’re definitely after her.

Laurel breaks into a run. She can see the trunk of her borrowed car up ahead. If she can get into it, she can get away...

At that moment, another two men come into view, blocking her path to the car. She skitters to a stop. They see her there and pause, one folding his arms over his chest, the other reaching for something stashed in his waistband. A gun?

Laurel risks another look behind her. The two men following from behind haven’t turned yet. Maybe she can surprise them and knock them back before the guys near her car have a chance to react.

She pivots on her heel, flying back around the corner before the guy with the gun can take a shot. And the two men are right there. She spin-kicks one in the face, and flips the other over her shoulder as he goes to grab her. Then she toes off her shoes, placing them in her hands as makeshift weapons, and sprints as fast as she can away from the alley, blood roaring in her ears.

A car screeches to a stop just ahead of her, blocking her path to cross the street lengthwise, and she yelps in frustrated fear. Is this it? Is she done for? The passenger-side window rolls down. “Laurel!”

She blinks—she doesn’t recognize the car. She bends down to see the driver—it’s Felicity, strands of frizzy blonde hair escaping her ponytail, her face taut with panic. “Get in!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope a Friday night update doesn't bite me in the butt...

Felicity takes a panicked step away from the window. Her mind fills with images: the glass shattering, shards raining around her, screams of coworkers on her floor as she crumples... No, she’s not going to make herself a sniper target. If they are onto her, she needs to get away, and fast. Find Oliver and warn him. But if he’s not answering his phone... is it too late? And if not, how does she sneak out of the building and get to him?

She decides it doesn’t matter whether it’s too early to take a lunch break or not. She’s done with the morning’s crises—well, the _work_ ones, anyway. She closes her laptop, places her jacket over the top, threads her purse through the other arm and heads for the stairwell, nodding to the floor’s receptionist without explaining where she’s going—it’s safer for her colleagues that way. And the stairwell is less dangerous than the elevator, she hopes.

There’s no one waiting for her there. Once she’s on the first floor, she stops to catch her breath, trying to think like a mobster. She figures modern mobsters aren’t the 1930s James-Cagney-style-fedora-and-suit-wearing sort, walking into a building with Tommy guns a-blazing. She would guess that they’re not brash-mouthed Italian mafioso Tony Soprano-types, either.

They bugged Laurel’s computer, staked out her office and followed her—so they’re trying to stay under the radar. Maybe they’re not keen on getting any other witnesses involved. Should she walk out into Queen Consolidated’s lobby and try to blend in with the crowd, then hail a taxi? By now, they’ve surely sussed out her connection to Oliver. Should she just take her regular car and hope that they only follow her... and not worse?

Then just as she’s about to push open the door into the lobby, she changes her mind, sprinting down the stairs to the parking level. She scans the lot quickly through the small window, seeing no one obvious in sight. That doesn’t mean there isn’t anyone lurking—but she puts that out of her mind. 

Even if no one is down here, there’s no way she’s getting into her beloved Mini Cooper without a thorough scan for bugs... or incendiary devices.

Pulling her phone out of her purse, she opens up an app she’s modified. She’s been wanting to test it out in the field, never dreaming that _she_ would be using it instead of Oliver. She sets it to scan, and after about 90 seconds, a car’s lights flash off to her left. She stops the scan and locks onto that signal, before taking a deep breath, opening the door into the garage and walking quickly toward the car.

It’s a gunmetal grey sedan, leather seats, nicer than what she usually drives. “Congratulations on the sweet ride,” she murmurs to herself, “with even sweeter keyless entry and ignition.” The door is still unlocked; she slides in and starts it up. She doesn’t carry gloves in her bag, so if she makes it out of this in one piece, she’s just going to have to hope she can wipe the steering wheel down later, vacuum up any stray hairs and trace DNA, delete the security footage... oh god, she’s really stealing a car isn’t she?

Before she leaves the garage, she sets up her laptop and mobile internet tether. If Oliver moves from the machine shop, she needs to know. His cell phone signal blinks from the same location as before, along with Diggle’s. 

She can’t decide if that’s reassuring or not.

At least she knows where to go. She pulls out of the parking space, infinitely grateful that the garage uses automated exit and entry instead of a gate guard. 

As she drives—slowly, carefully, making sure to keep with the flow of traffic—she keeps glancing over to see the little blinking lights of Oliver and John’s phones on the map. They don’t change location.

She also keeps checking her mirrors, trying to determine whether she’s picked up a tail, the way Laurel did last night. When a car makes the same turn she does, she tenses, willing herself not to speed up. One particular white hatchback stays with her for four straight turns. She almost pulls over into a gas station, just to see what happens, but the little blinking lights (still not moving) on her laptop spur her forward.

But the car turns another direction at the next block. She shifts her neck and shoulders, trying to relax her tight muscles, but it doesn’t help. How does Oliver manage this intense uncertainty and stress? Every minute she drives, her appreciation rises for his grace under pressure. Sure, she’s gone undercover before, but she had support from the team. Now there’s no hand on the small of her back—just a fist of fear gripping her guts making her want to double over.

She keeps driving. She has to.

She pulls over, a block away from the shop, keeping the engine running. Even though the neighborhood is pretty sketchy—scratch that, _super_ sketchy—she figures it doesn’t matter. It’s not her car, right? She grimaces at the thought, shaking her head at herself.

Should she try to call one of them again? Would it help? “Screw it,” she says, dialing John’s number again. It rings and rings, and goes to voicemail again. This time she leaves a message. “Hey, just calling to check in on you and find out _what the heck is going on_! Didn’t one of you think to fill me in? Like, ‘Hey, Felicity, going to see the Bratva, you know, like Oliver swore he wouldn’t? Check in with you later!’“ As she speaks, she glances at the street around her. It’s pretty empty, but she doesn’t want to sit here idling any longer than she has to. “So, um, call me back when you’re not tied up. I mean, that is, unless you and Oliver are like, _literally_ tied up.” She winces at herself, clarifying, “and not by choice. I mean, you could be, I don’t really know what you two are into, especially Oliver...” Her clarifications are making it worse. She rushes to finish. “Anyway, if you, um, get free, call me back! It’s urgent.” 

She ends the call, staring at her phone’s screen for a few moments, right foot jiggling up and down on the floorboards. Calling Oliver is redundant. He will call her back when he gets the first message. And it’s only been—she checks her call log—twenty minutes since the first call. 

She starts to put away the phone, but Laurel’s name on the list catches her eye. She wonders how Laurel’s doing—is she coping all right with the whole being-chased-through-The-Glades-and-narrowly-saved-by-what-might-have-been-an-accident-but-probably-wasn’t thing? Did she shake out her model-perfect waves and stride into CNRI this morning with a smile and a wave to her security detail, or was she a mass of nerves like Felicity was? 

Is. 

Ugh. Wow. Will she ever develop nerves of steel, or does she have this to look forward to as long as she works with Oliver?

Back to Laurel. It wouldn’t hurt to check on her. Felicity runs Laurel’s number through her software on the laptop. She might not have a tracker on Laurel’s phone, but she can triangulate its location based on the three nearest cell towers. 

When the location blinks, Felicity’s eyes go wide. “Oh my god,” she says, bringing her hand to her mouth. The icon is _inside_ the machine shop, only a few yards from where Oliver’s and John’s phones are broadcasting. Did they get Laurel, too? Are all three of them locked up together?

Shaking her head, she double checks the number and location. Yes, it’s definitely there, but now it’s pinging farther away, closer to the street. As she watches, the icon moves to the sidewalk and heads away from the shop. In Felicity’s direction.

Felicity’s head pops up, toward the corner ahead. A moment later, a woman walks around the corner, but it’s not Laurel—this woman has shoulder-length, straight blonde hair. Felicity glances down at her screen. It’s Laurel’s phone on the move, definitely. So why does this woman have Laurel’s phone? Is she Bratva, too?

A pair of men come around the corner behind the woman, and she glances behind her. She begins to walk more quickly, turning the next corner and slipping out of sight. The men break into a jog.

Okay, that doesn’t make any sense at all. Unless... is the blonde woman... Laurel?

It’s hard to tell, the woman has sunglasses and a leather jacket on—not really Laurel’s style as far as Felicity can remember, doesn’t Laurel wear a lot of sweater-slacks combos and feminine suits? Well, whoever it is, she’s in danger. Felicity can’t let that pass.

Felicity quickly shifts into gear and rolls forward, keeping her eyes on the men following blonde-maybe-Laurel. Luckily they don’t seem to notice her. As she gets to the mouth of the street where she can see better, the woman sprints around the corner, out of sight again, the men close behind. 

She makes a quick decision. Now that someone else’s life is on the line, her earlier nervousness gets put on hold. She lifts her laptop and places it on the backseat, just in case. Turning the corner to intercept, Felicity steps on the gas. The car responds smoothly, powerfully, and she nods in approval at her app’s auto theft choice. She doesn’t know what she’s going to do once she gets there, but surely all the combat training she’s getting from John has to come in useful for more than self-defense.

The men are heading for a narrow alley between two buildings—she’s not totally sure whether this car will fit. But before she even has a chance to find out, the woman comes back into view, striking one of the men with high-heeled kick to the face—ouch!—and flipping the other flat on his back. 

“Nice,” she says with a smile. “Girl’s got moves.” Is Laurel a secret badass?

The woman takes off her shoes and breaks into a run, holding her heels in each hand. This is Felicity’s best chance to get her out of there. She makes a diagonal to cut off the woman’s exit, screeching to a halt in front of her.

The woman skitters to a stop, raising her shoe-weapons in defense. It _could_ be Laurel, but she’s not completely sure. Felicity rolls down the window and calls out, hoping she’s right, “Laurel!” The way the woman halts in surprise tells Felicity all she needs to know. “Get in!”

Laurel glances behind her at the men who are groaning on the ground, then takes a step back. “No. Stay away from me.”

Felicity’s mouth drops open in what she can only assume is a ridiculous ‘O’ of shock. “What?”

Several yards behind Laurel at the mouth of the alley, two more men come into view, take one look at their fallen comrades, and continue toward Laurel. One of them seems to be holding a gun, the other one looks like he’s a weapon all unto himself. “Those guys aren’t coming to compliment you on this...” She gestures frantically at Laurel’s getup. “...Glades chic. Get in this car!”

Laurel holds her ground. “You would know.” Then she takes off running around the back of Felicity’s car and down another side street.

Felicity lets out an “Eep!”—half-scared, half-aggravated. What did _that_ mean? She slams the car into reverse, not caring if she hits the two men. Then she chases after Laurel, hitting Laurel’s phone number on her contacts list as she drives, hoping she doesn’t slam into a light pole.

Of course, it goes straight to voicemail. “Laurel, I don’t know what it is you think I know. But I’m trying to help! Do you think that I’m...?” It hits Felicity suddenly. “Oh my god, you do! Laurel, I am in _no_ way working for the Bratva. In fact, I think they’re after _both_ of us since I helped you last night. But why am I telling you here when you’re not going to even listen to it in time to stop running...” She hits ‘End Call’ with a grunt of frustration. How is she going to get Laurel to stop?

The sound of a bullet hitting the trunk of the car makes her shriek and swerve. As she’s ducking her head down, she sees Laurel dive behind a dumpster, bullets ricocheting off the dingy green metal. Another punches a hole through her car’s back windshield. Forget sneaking it back into the garage now! Felicity pulls up beside the dumpster, yelling out the still open window, “I’m not with them, Laurel! I’m with Oliver!”

“And Oliver is with _them_!” Laurel shouts back.

“No, he isn’t!” At Laurel’s huff of disbelief, Felicity continues, praying that absence of more gunshots means they’re out of bullets, and not just reloading. She can count cards, but she’s never had to count bullets before... “Not these guys, I swear to you!” Her voice breaking, she pleads one last time, “Who do you trust more? Oliver? Or these guys?”

A look of resigned sadness crosses Laurel’s face, just for a moment. Then she jumps up, tossing her shoes at her attackers, and pulls open the door with a yank. “Drive!”

Felicity’s peeling down the street before Laurel gets the door closed. Neither woman talks for several minutes while Felicity puts as much space between them and their pursuers as possible. Laurel removes her sunglasses and the wig, finger-combing through her hair. Felicity glances at Laurel, a couple of times, only to find her studying Felicity as she works out the tangles. Felicity cuts her eyes back to the road each time. The awkward silence stretches until they are well on the other side of The Glades, closer to _Verdant_ than CNRI. “Uh...” Felicity begins, taking a deep breath. “We’re going to have to d—”

Felicity’s phone rings. It’s Oliver.

Felicity huffs, half-annoyance, half-relief. “ _Now_ he sees fit to call me back?” She punches ‘Accept.’ “Oliver? Are you all right?” Laurel tilts her head with suspicious interest. 

“ _Of course, I’m fine,_ ” he says, though only she can hear him through her Bluetooth earpiece. “ _What about you? You said you ‘screwed up?’ How? In what way?_ ” 

“I’d love to tell you, but unfortunately, this is _not_ a conversation we should have over the phone.” Or with Laurel present. Even if she’s only hearing one side of the conversation.

“You can tell him I’m with you,” Laurel says, matter-of-factly. “I was on my way to see him, anyway.”

Felicity’s eyebrows rise, and she gives Laurel a look of surprise. Aloud, she says, “Um, Laurel says hi? She’s kinda... with me. In the car. Which doesn’t belong to me. And has a few bullet-hole-sized modifications to the paint job.” This time, Laurel’s eyebrows are rising. Felicity cuts herself off before it gets worse.

“ _Felicity._ ” Oliver’s voice is stern. “ _Tell me that wasn’t the two of you outside the Bratva front._ ” She hears a laugh from John in the background.

“Uh...” She chuckles nervously as an answer.

He’s suddenly murmuring in Russian—and she can guess the meaning from the context. She can even imagine his epic facepalm. When he reverts to English again, he says, “ _Why on earth were you there?_ ”

So it’s just as much a surprise to Oliver that Laurel was in the shop as it was to Felicity. Was she spying on Oliver? If so, how much did she hear? “I tracked you there. Laurel... you’ll have to ask her. In fact, she wants to talk to you.”

“ _No. Absolutely not. She’s in enough danger as it is._ ”

“Oliver.” She pulls out the stern voice this time. “She was there. In the shop. She overheard you...” She gets a confirming nod from Laurel.

More mumbling in Russian, angrier this time.

“You’re going to have to explain to her what’s going on with the Bratva.”

“ _Felicity..._ ”

“ _You have to._ This affects her, affects her client, it’s even affecting _me_ now. Which is more important to you?” Felicity puts as much weight as possible into her next words. “Your secrets or her safety?”


	11. Chapter 11

Laurel sits quietly in the passenger seat, straining to hear what she can over the Bluetooth in Felicity’s ear. She can’t make out actual words, just volume and little bit of tone. Felicity’s face scrunches up in frustration as she listens to whatever Oliver is saying. It’s actually... doing a lot to earn her trust.

She’s been agonizing for hours over whether or not to believe that Oliver is an actual mobster, that Felicity and John Diggle are his underlings. She supposes that the Russian she overheard Oliver speaking in the shop, as damning as it is, is purely circumstantial. It definitely wouldn’t hold water in court.

But her gut tells her this is real. That she’s onto the truth. She slips her hand into her purse and curls her fingers around her phone. If Felicity, or Oliver, or _anyone_ tries to silence her, she’s one press away from alerting her father.

Then Felicity surprises her. “You’re going to have to explain to her what’s going on with the Bratva,” Felicity demands, voice rising. She hardly lets Oliver respond at all before adding. “ _You have to_. This affects her, affects her client, it’s even affecting me now. Which is more important to you?” Felicity’s tone is steel. “Your secrets or her safety?”

Laurel holds her breath. She’s seen the secrets locked behind his eyes for so many months, and she’s wanted so much to bring each one to light. Even yesterday, having coffee with him made her feel they were so close—that if only she could make him see that he was safe with her, he might open up?

But Felicity stays silent, listening to Oliver. Laurel can’t sense his volume or his tone. Laurel only has Felicity’s facial expressions to go by. First she raises her eyebrows, then she purses her lips. Next she nods in understanding, switching to a shake of her head. All of this within ten seconds, but that feels like an eternity.

Laurel speaks up. “Is he worried about my dad?” Felicity glances toward her. Laurel barrels on. “Because I could have taken my suspicions to him last night. And I didn’t.” At Felicity’s widened eyes, she adds, “Tell him that.” She won't take them to him yet, anyway. Her fingers tighten around the rubber casing of her phone. 

Felicity’s lips quirk to the side. “He heard.”

“And?”

“He’ll talk. He doesn’t like it...” Felicity shrugs, satisfied. “But he’ll talk.”

“Good.” Laurel nods. She relaxes her fingers, though she keeps the phone close. “Where?”

“Where would you feel safe?” Felicity asks. “CNRI? Your apartment?” 

_Nowhere_? But outwardly Laurel smiles at Felicity’s—or is it Oliver’s?—thoughtfulness. “No, the police are watching both of those places. Maybe someplace unconventional. Someplace no one knows about—not the Bratva, not my dad... is there a place like that?”

Felicity listens to Oliver’s response, then nods toward Laurel. “I think there’s a place. We’ll meet him there in an hour.” To Oliver, she says, “See you there.” She clicks off and removes the Bluetooth earpiece.

Laurel tenses—she’s already been away from work for an hour or so.  
“Why not right now?” The longer she stays gone, the more likely that the security detail will notice her absence and come looking. So it could be a good thing—but only if she’s still in danger. If Oliver is really going to be straight with her, then she doesn’t want any police anywhere near. Laurel makes a show of digging in her bag, and pulls her phone out where Felicity can see. She checks her call log. Nothing from Joanna or her dad... yet.

“Well...” Felicity bites her lip. “We _kiiiiiiiinda_ have to ditch this car first.”

“Oh.” Felicity’s black humor cracks Laurel’s nervousness enough to her to notice her own shoeless feet—bare after she chucked them at the Bratva thugs. “Before that... could we maybe pick up a pair of flip flops?”

* * *

The taxi drops them at a corner a block or two from the meeting place. They hadn’t spoken much on the way there, Felicity apologizing for ‘a couple tiny things I need to take care of’ as she typed nearly superspeed on her laptop. Laurel’s not sure what to think of the implication—well, more than implication—that the car Felicity had been driving before was not hers, even less sure about the fact that the clearly-expensive sedan was now sinking to the bottom of the bay.

And somehow Felicity had found (or known about) a spot where she could do that unobserved in the middle of the day.

Through it all, Felicity performed these tasks with an air of disbelief mixed with pragmatism. Like she couldn’t believe she found herself in this situation. Yet somehow, she knew just what to do. “So...” Laurel says, breaking the silence as they walk. “...is this an average day for Felicity Smoak?”

Felicity brays a laugh. “For me? Hardly.”

Laurel gives her a sidelong glance in return. “You think well on your feet, then.”

“Thanks.” She shakes her head and smiles at a private joke. “I’ve had to learn to...” Then she swallows and looks away.

Interesting. 

“What about you?” Felicity gestures to Laurel’s jacket and the strands of blonde wig hair poking out of her bag. “There a lot of call for undercover missions in pro bono work?”

Laurel blushes. Then chuckles. “You got me there.”

“That’s the two of us,” Felicity muses, shrugging. “Grace under fire.” She lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Or in my case, ‘trying desperately not to spaz’ under fire.” They turn a corner, and Felicity points ahead to an empty-looking office building, with an almost-empty parking lot. A plain white two-door car sits alone in one of the spaces. “There it is.”

“He’s already there?”

Felicity nods. “Him and John, yes.”

“Oh.” She’d forgotten that John Diggle would probably be there. She’d always appreciated him before, knowing he was protecting Oliver. She guesses he really is protecting Oliver, in a way. Him and his secrets.

Felicity stops, puts a hand on her shoulder. “Is that going to be a problem?”

Laurel thinks for a moment. Is it? “No,” she decides, a bit amazed that Felicity seems to be giving Laurel all of these outs, trying to make sure she feels safe. But if she leaves now, what will happen to Sonya? 

If she leaves now... she’s no closer to the truth.

When they get to the entrance, John opens the door for them. The gesture is gallant, and doesn’t jive with the picture that’s trying to form. She nods a thank you, and he returns it. “Oliver is back there.” He points to an open door behind the dusty reception area.

Felicity lets her walk ahead of her and Laurel quietly stops in the doorway of the room. It’s an office—there’s still a desk, a green metal and laminate relic of the 60s, along with a few mismatched chairs. The blinds are angled mostly shut, and that’s where Oliver stands wearing one of his tailored suits, staring out the window at the empty street. She wonders what he’s thinking about—past trauma, present problems or an uncertain future?

She starts to feel uncomfortable after a few moments, just staring at him. She opens her mouth...

“You can sit wherever you like,” Oliver says without turning. His voice is bleak, toneless. Like he’s reached the end of a road with a chasm at the end of it. 

She doesn’t move. “Oliver...”

“Laurel.” He turns then, eyes focusing on her face. 

She gasps a little before she can control it. Gone is the easy smile she’d been seeing the last few weeks when he greeted her. Gone is the friendly concern from last month, or even the barely-concealed brokenness of the first days he was back from the Island.

These eyes are dead.

He holds her gaze like that for almost longer than she can stand, then he breaks eye contact and looks down at the ground. “You’re afraid of me now.” A pause and he looks back up. “I don’t blame you.”

She stumbles forward, propelled by something she doesn’t understand, though she stops short of taking one of his hands in hers. “Then help me not be afraid. Tell me the truth.”

He presses his lips together. “But you see, that’s what _I’m_ afraid of.”

“Because the truth will put you in jail? Because the truth will get you killed?”

“No. I don’t care about either of those things.” And he truly seems to mean that. “Because the truth will change our relationship forever.”

This time she does take his hand, threading her fingers through his surprisingly calloused ones. “It doesn’t have to.”

He lets out a humorless laugh. “Doesn’t it? Ask Tommy how he feels about me right now.”

Another confirmation that his falling out with Tommy was about these deeply-held secrets. But Laurel is not Tommy. She works with the law, and those who break it. She’s defended the hopeless against the lowest of the low. She’s lived with a father who presses on against the evils of Starling City, who is driven to fight it despite the cost to himself, to his family. 

Even if Oliver is part of these evils, or scarred by them, she can’t imagine being shocked by anything he has to tell her. And she wants to believe in him _so_ much—she has to admit that is part of the fear she’s been feeling.

She glances behind her, where Diggle and Felicity are hanging back beside the door. Felicity nods encouragement. Laurel is suddenly very grateful that there’s someone to facilitate this conversation. She has a feeling that Oliver would never have given up the truth without it. 

So Laurel pulls Oliver over to sit in a chair beside her. “Believe me, the truth can’t be any worse than what I’ve been imagining for the past twelve hours.”

He blinks, then sighs. The deadness recedes into something more vulnerable. “Let me tell you a story.” He stands and removes his jacket, then turns his attention to slowly unfastening the buttons on his shirt.

Felicity clears her throat behind them, and Oliver pauses, halfway down.. “Uh... should John and I... you know...” Laurel turns back to see a blush creeping up Felicity’s cheeks. “I mean it’s nothing I haven’t seen before... I mean we haven’t... unless you’re not planning to stop with the shirt...” She actually clamps a hand over her mouth.

Oliver shakes his head, eyes still down, a small grin appearing and then disappearing almost as quickly. “No, please stay. I want all of you to know.”

Laurel fights to control her surprise. He’s going to tell a story that even his closest confidants don’t know? Just how close has he kept these secrets?

The two come in and sit to either side of Laurel, a small but interested audience.

“On the Island... as I’ve told all of you...” Oliver resumes his slow work of unfastening the buttons. “I wasn’t alone.” He slides the shirt off one shoulder, then the other. “Some of these were inflicted against my will.” He lightly traces a few of the scars as he talks. “Some of these I earned in battle.” His fingers move to the Chinese characters running vertically down his abdomen. “Some are tributes to comrades in arms.” Finally he ends with the Bratva star. “This is the mark of a grateful man. An enemy turned friend.”

Laurel doesn’t dare ask any questions yet. He’s already told her more with four simple sentences than he has in months.

“It wasn’t the first year I was there, nor the last. I was... alone again. Fighting to survive against odds that seemed stacked against me worse than when I first arrived. I’d... had some help at first. Later, once again alone, I found it harder to go on. I just wanted to give up, worse than ever before. I could see no end to the days of scraping by, no chance of ever seeing anyone I loved again. No point in living anymore.”

Laurel glances at Felicity. Her eyes are gleaming, the lenses in her square frames magnifying the glimmer of tears threatening to fall. She herself is almost too worried that she’ll break the spell of the words that keep coming if she even draws a breath.

“Then I would remember the reason I was alive and on the island in the first place. Because my father gave his life for mine. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing him in the afterlife, knowing I couldn’t handle his gift... Whether I believe in an afterlife or not, it didn’t matter. It felt as if I were already living one... _Lian Yu_ , the name of the island, means ‘purgatory’ in Chinese.”

She glances at Diggle next. He’s not looking at Oliver, his eyes far away as he listens. His expression is almost one of... understanding. She wonders what sort of life he has lived up to now to make that so.

“So I would pick myself up again, stumble through another few painful months of solitary, meaningless life, and then one day, I met him. Anatoli Knyazev. Leader of the Solntsevskaya Bratva.” Oliver brushes his fingers idly across one part of the tattoo. “It doesn’t really matter how it happened—but from the moment we first saw each other we were locked in a battle of wills and survival. And I suddenly had purpose again.”

At no point during this explanation does Oliver look up. Is it because it’s too hard to keep eye contact while remembering? Or too painful to doubly relive the memories through their reactions?

“I found that if I just pushed everything aside—all feeling, all memory, all thought—it was easy to become a weapon. After all... I had killed before. Many times over.” His lips thin into a grim line at the admission. 

The words don’t stun her, at least not as much as she expects. Somewhere, deep inside, she must have known he had killed. That he could not have come away from the Island with as many scars as he had without being the victor. Maybe it was why she had been able to leap to the truth that Oliver was Bratva with ease. After all, killing changes a person—she’d seen it with her father, with her clients who had been charged with manslaughter, when she was unable to stop wrongful execution. It explains so much about the brokenness Oliver is unable to completely hide.

“But he was cunning, ruthless, every bit the weapon I was becoming—and he had a lot more experience at it. And then somehow, I don’t know how—was I just lucky or had I crossed into a level of skill that gave me an edge?—I found myself holding his life in my hands.”

His hands clench and unclench, causing the muscles in his arms to flex in response. And Laurel is excruciatingly aware of how muscular he is now, so much more than before he left. He hasn’t let himself go like he could have in the months since he returned. Only last week she would have assumed he was keeping in shape for some vain purpose, but now she wonders, is it because he no longer remembers any other way?

“I could have killed him, I wanted to. But in the instant before, I saw something in his eyes, something of my father. A man, not an enemy. I couldn’t. And he could have decided I was weak, no longer a worthy adversary, and killed me instead. But he didn’t. We became brothers in survival. He taught me Russian, new... ways to survive. He saved my life as many times as I saved his. And at the end of it...”

Oliver pauses, a lot longer than the other times. Laurel almost thinks it’s over, looks toward Felicity to see if she agrees, but then he sighs and her attention is back on him again.

“...well, before the end of it... He inked this tattoo himself as a thank you, telling me that for the rest of my life, even if we never saw each other again, we would not just be brothers in arms, but brothers in The Brotherhood.”

Then, finally, _finally_ , he lifts his eyes to hers. They are shining more brightly, their blue deeper than she’s ever seen before.

“So, yes. I am Bratva. Forever.” The intensity and emotion slowly fades, and he says, “But I swear to you, I have never committed any crime here in Starling City in the name of the Bratva. I’m sorry I lied before. I just couldn’t tell you. What happened is so deeply personal, and I haven’t even scratched the surface.”

She finds herself nodding forgiveness without thinking. She knows he’s not spinning her another story, if not by Felicity and Diggle’s reactions, then by her gut feeling, something that has rarely steered her wrong in her career as a lawyer. In fact, she’s never seen him so honest, not before the island, and certainly not since. “Ollie...” she says, putting all of the multitude of emotions behind the nickname.

Felicity rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s about time.” She digs a half-used tissue from her pocket and dabs at the rest of the wetness as she gets to the point quicker than Laurel would have. “Now why were you meeting with your contact then?”

“Yes,” Laurel says, “And why did I hear you speak my name and my client’s name?” 

He begins to put his shirt back on with spare movements, frowning. “I heard about what happened last night.”

“From the Bratva?”

He shakes his head. “From Tommy.”

She chuckles that it's so obvious. “What about the bad blood between you? I thought you two weren’t speaking.”

“When it concerns you, there’s no such thing as bad blood.”

“Oh.” She blushes. It both touches and embarrasses her to find that’s still true.

“When I heard, I went straight away. I told them you and your client are off-limits.”

She’s more concerned about her client than herself. “Are they going to leave Sonya alone?” Laurel asks, half a plea, half a demand. “She’s refusing to testify because of something that happened in jail!”

Oliver nods. “Alexi wasn’t happy.”

Diggle speaks up. “I’d say it was a bit more than that.”

Oliver nods. “He disapproved of me getting involved. It’s against the Bratva code.” He reaches a hand toward her to run a finger down her cheek. “But your safety is more important to me than a code.”

The finger almost burns her with its intimacy. She pulls back, feeling awkward. “Thank you,” she says, trying to cover.

He gives her a sad little smile. “Of course.”

She looks away, unsure what to say next, and sees Felicity standing there watching them. There’s a touch of something on her face, something wistful. When Felicity catches Laurel’s eye, she snaps out of it, fussing with her glasses. “So. I’d better get back before they miss me. Or more than they usually do. I can’t even use you as an excuse this time—they might start asking questions...”

Laurel avoids raising an eyebrow. So missing work because of Oliver is a regular occurrence...? Her original suspicion yesterday that they might be secretly dating gets stronger. Felicity’s wistful look takes on another layer of meaning—does she wish she and Oliver could go public? And why haven’t they, anyway?

So Laurel feels terrible in asking, “I left Joanna’s car back in the alley beside the garage where I found you. Do you think it’s still there?”

“I’ll make a call on the way over,” he assures her, and then chides her sternly as they walk toward the entrance again. “That was a very dangerous thing you did, Laurel.” He takes Felicity in with a gesture. “Both of you! What if they’d gotten their hands or you—or worse—before I could stop them?”

Laurel stops short, annoyed. “Excuse me? Seems that all of that could have been avoided if you’d told me at least a tiny bit of the truth yesterday.”

“Or answered your freakin’ phone,” Felicity adds.

Diggle laughs and holds open the door to the parking lot. “The ladies have a point, Oliver.”

He frowns at being outnumbered. “Better get you both back,” he says instead, and walks past them out the door toward the car.

Laurel gives Felicity a sidelong glance, and finds her openly smiling. Laurel breaks into a smile herself.

In a low voice, Diggle comments, “You might want to enjoy your victory on the way?” He nods toward where Oliver is already getting into the back.

Sharing a grin with Felicity, Laurel says, “Got it.”

She rides shotgun so that Felicity can take the back seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, finally a chapter without a cliffhanger! Enjoy it while you can. ;)
> 
> Of course, everything about how Oliver got the Bratva tattoo is pure speculation on my part... I'm looking forward to finding out how it really happened. Season 3, perhaps?
> 
> I also have an interesting theory about the Chinese tattoo on his abdomen. But it really didn't fit in this fic. Anyone interested in a separate one-shot (perhaps with animated GIFs) at some point after this fic is over?
> 
>  **Note 2!** : (7/12/2013) I will not be updating again until probably July 24-26, because I've been busier than usual, and then will be out of the country for most of next week. Look for it then!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! July was full of RL excitement, but now I have a few weeks before school starts again. Thanks to blithers for stepping in to beta when my regulars weren't able to! ♥

Felicity slides into the back seat, beside Oliver. Catching his eye, she gives him a little smirk. He responds with an annoyed glare, the type that says as-soon-as-we’re-out-of-Laurel’s-hearing-you’re-going-to-hear-more-than-enough-from-me. Felicity shakes her head, and rolls her eyes. She’s pretty sure she will. But so will he.

So she nudges him with a hand, mouthing the words, ‘Thank you.’ He simply nods, and begins to stare out the window, lost in his thoughts.

Is he reliving those days again—remembering a time best left in the past, even though it shapes every moment of his present and future? There are times during the late nights, when he just sits staring into space, far away from everyone. Those moments, she and John don’t say anything, they just let him drift. He comes back to them soon enough.

And besides, the time she tried, he nearly had her in a headlock before realizing where he was.

Knowing a little about where that instinct, those hair-trigger reactions came from—it helps. She never knew him before he came back from the Island, except by reputation. And she was always more into comic books and science fiction shows than gossip magazines and reality shows. But she _had_ looked him up after that first day he appeared in her office, acting clueless, and clearly on purpose. What kind of person _was_ this Oliver Queen? A playboy, a profligate spender, kicked out of even more schools than he had admitted to during their first conversation. So why did he seem like he was wearing that personality like a Halloween mask, where only the eyes showed the true person beneath?

The person he is now and the person he used to be are so far apart that she can believe that only surviving five years of hell could cause such a change. 

Would she have ever heard that story on her own, without Laurel forcing his hand? And how many more stories does he have to tell? Will she ever hear them all? Or really, any more than she needs to know?

One day, she hopes she will see his true face beneath the mask, that he can completely strip it away in her presence, no secrets, no hidden shame. Or maybe that some of his old carefree ways might come back to him when he had finally met his dead father’s demands, that the mask would dissolve into reality once more.

Well, not really _dissolve_ , as such. That would be kind of gruesome, although she suddenly imagines it for real, in all its stupid-B-movie-horror-flick glory, bubbling into his face...

Felicity gives her head a hard shake, and Oliver tilts his head toward her, questioning. “Nothing,” she murmurs. “Just my overactive imagination.”

He searches her face for a moment—as if trying to determine just what it was that she was imagining.

“Not your time on the Island, or anything,” she supplies. “I mean, I’ve _wondered_ about it, but you’ve talked about it jack squat up to today. I had kind of a Gilligan’s-Island-goes-Gladiator fantasy about it before...”

His eyebrows draw down.

“...uh, that is, when I thought about it. Which wasn’t often.” She swallows. “No more than once a day, I swear.”

His stony countenance starts to soften into a small grin. Then he shrugs. “Actually, you’re not really that far off.” He chuckles. “Kudos for using references I would get.”

She laughs, nudges his leg. His eyes cut down toward her hand.

She pulls it back, maybe a little too quickly, and she immediately regrets it, because his eyes shutter down again, losing the bit of humor they’d just held. It reminds her of the way he’d reacted to Laurel pulling away from his touch back in the abandoned office.

She wonders, does he believe that everyone he loves will pull away from him once they know any part of the truth? He certainly has enough evidence in Tommy, in Helena. 

So, before she can overthink it, she places her hand back on his leg and gives it a quick, ‘we’re okay’ kind of rub. He seems to relax, a gentle smile touching his lips again. 

It’s only much later that she realizes she’s grouped herself in with the people ‘he loves.’

* * *

Her phone buzzes on the coffee table beside her stockinged feet, propped up there as she half-watches a show, half-browses the internet on her tablet. She frowns before glancing down at the phone’s screen. Oliver had given both her and John the night off, said he needed to take care of some non-Hood-related business. What that entails she doesn’t know. 

She’s fighting with everything she has not to track his cell again.

After dropping Laurel back off at her car, the ride back to Queen Consolidated had been quiet. There was no lecture, no impassioned plea to stay safe, no warnings to stay out of his business. He never explained the details of what he had been discussing with the Bratva, and though she was dying to ask, she didn’t out of courtesy. In fact, he was even more silent than usual, giving her a nice, platonic shoulder pat as he told her she should go home and rest after work today. The day had been one of the more exciting ones recently, sure, but she’d come to expect excitement. Then he’d closed the door and the car had smoothly pulled back into traffic, leaving her standing on the sidewalk, watching it disappear into the distance.

So even though she half-assumes it, the call is not from Oliver or John. It’s Laurel. “ _You busy?_ ”

Felicity pauses the show and sets her tablet to the side. “I had a date with my DVR backlog, but it’s used to me giving it constant rain checks.” She’s starting to think that maybe she should just cancel half of the series she has saved, anyway. “What’s up?”

“ _You want to..._ ” Laurel hesitates. Felicity has trouble imagining Laurel as ever being as unsure as she sounds right now. “ _...go get a drink?_ ”

Felicity glances at her half-drunk glass of wine, plucks at her comfy pajama pants. “Like at a club?”

“ _No, no... nothing like that. There’s this little dive I go sometimes, when I need to just think._ ” There’s another pause. “ _Or talk._ ”

Felicity gets suddenly nervous. What does Laurel want to talk about? Oliver? Something else? She has a feeling it’s the first. As nonchalantly as she can manage, she asks, “About what?”

Laurel chuckles, then sighs. “ _The main reason is because I_ do _want to get to know you better—especially after today. We’re almost like comrades in arms, now, right?_ ”

“Comrades avoiding broken arms, I’d say.” Felicity jokes, then bites her lip at her silliness.

But Laurel laughs. “ _Exactly._ ”

“And the other reason?”

“ _I guess there’s no reason to beat around the bush. You don’t seem like the type to enjoy small talk._ ” Felicity nods at Laurel’s insight—though it’s not completely true. She could talk about her favorite television characters or the latest configuration changes to the Queen Consolidated network for hours. Laurel continues, “ _It’s about the case. I’m running into brick walls, everywhere I turn. Would you be willing to help me out?_ ”

Felicity looks again at her wine and the show paused on the television screen. Oliver _had_ given her the night off... and it would keep her from getting nosy about Oliver’s whereabouts...

“ _They have a decent wine list, from what I remember, for a dive..._ ” Laurel adds.

Felicity doesn’t know how Laurel knew her weakness, but does it matter? It’s not like the Beringer going stale on the table is a Lafite or anything. “Sold.”

* * *

“So then I climbed over the fence and shimmied through the pet door before he finished pulling into the garage. I raced into my seat at the table, flipped open a book and pretended I was doing an assignment. ‘Evening, Laurel,’ he said as he walked in, ‘You been studying all this time? Take a break, honey.’ I thanked him and started to walk out of the house again... only to see that my mother had been on the couch the whole time, watching. She just waved and let me go.”

Felicity guffaws, choking slightly on her wine, the alcohol burning her throat. “She didn’t care?”

“I think she was kind of... proud? It’s hard to explain.” Laurel frowns. “Looking back, I think she might have been starting to pull away, even then.”

Felicity doesn’t know how to respond. She lets out a little grunt of understanding, takes another sip to wash down the acid. But it’s nice to see another side to ‘beautiful, perfect Laurel.’

“You were so brave,” Felicity finally says when the awkward silence has stretched longer than even _she_ can bear. “I hardly even raised my voice to my parents the whole time I lived under their roof.”

Laurel’s head tilts appraisingly. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Felicity confirms with a nod, “I was a complete and utter goody-two-shoes until I went off to college.”

One corner of Laurel’s mouth starts to turn up. “And then you made up for lost time?”

“I practically needed a TARDIS.”

Laurel frowns.

Of course Laurel hasn’t seen _Doctor Who_ , Felicity berates herself. “Time traveling device,” she explains. “Like the DeLorean?”

Laurel’s face clears with comprehension. “Oh, like in _Back to the Future_. Ollie and I rented that once...” Her words trail off, and she blushes. An actual, red-staining-her-cheeks-prettily blush.

Felicity chuckles. “I’m glad we can remove the earplugs.” Laurel frowns again; Felicity goes on, “You know, the trumpet calls were getting pretty loud. From the elephant in the room.”

“Oh, yeah. That.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, avoiding eye contact. “I didn’t want this get together to be all about him.”

Felicity shrugs. “He _is_ the way we met.”

“But...” She meets Felicity’s eyes again, apologetically. “I know how weird it can be, talking to the ex.”

“Oh, it’s no p—” Felicity stops, her mouth dropping open at the implication. “Wait, no, what?” She sputters, her words coming out more incoherently than usual. “I—no, that’s not—do you think we’re...?”

“Dating? Felicity, you don’t have to hide it to protect me. I’m a big girl.”

“ _Oh_ no, there’s no hiding or protecting of anything!” Not that anyway! “It’s totally ‘olly olly oxen free.’ I am a completely single girl. Happily so!” Mostly. For practicality’s sake. Her massive crush had to be kept in check for the good of the mission, after all. “I just work for him. Maybe it’s a lot of hours, but they are romance-free hours, I assure you.”

Laurel presses her lips together, as if there is a smile threatening to break wide. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Hmm. I’m usually a pretty good judge of these things. Guess I was wrong.”

Felicity nods, using her wine glass to hide the furious blush _she_ is now sporting. “You wanted to talk about your case?” she asks, the words echoing on the inside of the goblet.

With a huff of amusement, Laurel nods. “Okay, yes, absolutely.” She reaches below the table to pull some files out of her briefcase. It’s a sheaf of papers, mostly handwritten notes, or photocopies of documents and pictures. “Sorry I don’t have this for you on a flash drive, but after what happened yesterday... I’m being extra cautious.”

Laurel’s right to be cautious. This morning, Felicity had feared for her _own_ life. “Is that why you wanted to meet here, too?”

Laurel continues to sift through the papers, nodding. “I’m starting to think I’d better avoid all electronic avenues on this one.” Then she cuts her eyes toward the bar, where several people are drinking together, voices raised in rowdy conversation. “Plus, this place is a pretty well-known cop hangout.”

Felicity stiffens, her eyes going wide as she scans the room.

“Relax. These guys all know me; they’re not going to be suspicious of you in the slightest.”

That does not calm her beating heart, not one iota. But instead, she takes a deep breath. “If you say so.”

“All right, so after I got back to work I did as much digging as I could into the local Bratva network. I’d find a promising lead and... bam! It would vanish. I have no idea where any of their operations are located, except that mechanic—and if I hadn’t followed Oliver today...” She sighs. “Or I’d look into a case in our files that I thought might be related, and...” Laurel brings one hand down into her palm like a hatchet. “Cut off. I think I was transferred from department to department for ninety minutes before they basically told me that I didn’t have the security clearance. I understand why the FBI has to be so careful with organized crime, but this is a woman’s life hanging in the balance. It might be different if Sonya were a U.S. citizen, but...”

“It would be easier for them to deport her than to get her justice.”

“Exactly.” Laurel’s jaw sets. “And once she’s back home...”

“You’re afraid she won’t last long.” 

Felicity tries to imagine herself in the same situation, alone, guilty of nothing more than wanting to have control of her own life, among those who would rather see her dead than let it happen. She can’t, it’s too horrifying.

Laurel puts her head in her hands, looking more frustrated than Felicity could have imagined. “I got the judge to give me an extension before the hearing, but if I don’t A) get more evidence or B) find the guy and get him to confess, then her fate is sealed.”

It sounds like she could use a little Hooded help right now. But Felicity can’t suggest that, not to Laurel anyway. And after Oliver risked his Bratva connections for Laurel already, Felicity’s afraid to even mention it to him.

Laurel rubs her hands over her face, then leans forward and murmurs in a low voice, “I’m almost desperate enough to reach out to the vigilante again...”

Hearing her thoughts reflected makes Felicity gasp. She leans down herself, playing it as shocked interest. “You’ve actually _met_ the vigilante?”

“More than once,” Laurel affirms, and though this isn’t news to Felicity, she’s surprised that Laurel trusts her enough to confide it.

“Even if I could find him somehow, the last time we talked I almost got him captured. And then he told me he wouldn’t risk my safety again.” She lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m tempted to throw on a hood myself, except I’m a terrible shot.”

“But not too bad with your hands and feet, if I recall.”

Laurel’s eyes twinkle with surprise. “You saw that?”

“It was badass. I almost didn’t recognize you.” Leaving aside the blonde wig and leather jacket.

“I want to say... ‘thanks’?” Then she sighs again. “But I have a feeling that a couple of martial arts classes aren’t going to be as effective in this case. Something has to be done, though. Time is running out for Sonya.”

Felicity may not be able to imagine Sonya’s predicament, but she _can_ try to stop it. She places a hand on one of Laurel’s. “What can I do to help?”

“You’ll help?” Laurel’s face brightens, as if she’d been expecting Felicity to turn her down. “It isn’t a conflict of interest, Oliver being your boss?”

“He’s not the boss of me.” Her lips twist with mirth at the childish saying. “Okay, well, technically he is, but not of all of me. Or of what I choose to do in my free time. And I’m in this with you, now. I don’t want to see Sonya hurt any more than you do.”

“Thank you.” Laurel pulls out a page from her notes. “I was watching you today. Do you think you could...” she lowers her voice even more—a good idea, considering they’re in a cop bar, “find out more about these names?” She slides over the sheet, her own ‘List.’

Felicity can probably find out quite a lot, FBI firewalls or no. To Laurel, she says, “I will do what I can. At least, narrow it down. At most...”

Felicity doesn’t get to finish her thought. “Laurel, here you are!” A figure is suddenly standing beside the table, causing both Laurel and Felicity to look up, startled, from their conspiratorial huddle. 

It’s Laurel’s father, Detective Lance. “Hi, Dad,” Laurel says to him. “Is something wrong?”

“Is something wrong?” he mimicks back at her, brow furrowed. “You cancel your protective detail, your cell phone is going straight to voicemail, and not even your boyfriend knows where you are. That’s what’s _wrong_.”

Laurel grimaces. “Sorry, Dad, I should have told you... there have been... changes... to the case,” she glances at Felicity and Felicity tries not to react, “that made police protection unnecessary.”

Lance drags an available chair over from a nearby table without asking the current occupants, and sits in it backwards. “What kind of changes?” he demands.

“I...” This time she doesn’t look at Felicity, thank goodness. “...I can’t say. Attorney-client privilege.”

He adds a worried frown to his furrowed brow, cursing under his breath. “I swear, Dinah Laurel Lance, you are going to be the death of me.” Louder, he says, standing, “Can we take this somewhere more private? One of my guys dug up some information after you came by the station last night—I think you need to hear it right away.”

“Sure, of course.” Laurel stands. “I’ll be right back,” she tells Felicity.

Lance seems to realize then that Laurel has company. “I’m sorry, it shouldn’t be long, Miss...?”

“Smoak.” Felicity extends a hand. “Felicity Smoak.”

He freezes halfway into the shake. “Smoak? Of Queen Consolidated?”

“Yes...?” she answers, suddenly nervous about his tone of voice. 

He turns to his daughter. “I’m sorry, Laurel, we've gotta put that conversation on hold.” Then his face goes grim. “Miss Smoak, I'm afraid you’re going to have to come down to the station with me.” He places one hand purposefully on the handcuffs hanging from his belt. “Immediately.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this story goes AU from 1.19, this really is the first time Quentin and Felicity have met. :)


	13. Chapter 13

Laurel’s mouth drops open, an indignant wave flashing through her. “What?! What the hell, Dad?” 

Felicity goes still beside her, her eyes wide with shock. “I... I don’t understand,” she says in a quiet voice.

Quentin flashes a regretful glance at Laurel, but directs his words at Felicity instead. “I have some questions for you, down at the station. I’d prefer that you came quietly, but...” He taps the cuffs at his belt again.

Felicity swallows, eyes darting around the room. Laurel does the same. This may be a cop bar, but so far, no one seems to be noticing the little drama starting to unfold.

Felicity nods once. Then she stands, pulling her purse up with her. “All right.” She steps away from the table.

Laurel’s head whips to Felicity instead this time. “What? Why are you going with him?”

Quentin pauses, his lips tightening into a thin line. “Laurel.” He jerks his head toward an old patrol buddy of his sitting at the bar. She knows him, his wife and kids used to come over for barbecues when Mom was still around. “Not here.” Then he turns and continues to walk toward the exit, Felicity in tow.

Laurel growls under her breath, then yanks up her purse. She digs a twenty out of her wallet and tosses it on the table, shooting frantic glances at her father’s disappearing back. If he won’t explain in here, he damn well is going to explain somewhere else!

As she pushes out of the doors, she sees her dad’s car halfway down the block, the figures of Quentin and Felicity in silhouette in a dim circle of streetlight. Laurel can’t tell what they’re saying—they’re too far away. She breaks into a jog.

In a few moments, she’s close enough to see Felicity digging in her purse for something, her brow wrinkled with worry. Quentin’s hand is out, palm up. What is he up to?

“Wait!” she calls out, and Felicity turns her head. Quentin frowns, and his shoe begins to tap with impatience, but he does not turn. It’s then that she sees what is in Felicity’s hand—her cell phone. “Do _not_ give that to him.”

Felicity’s mouth opens into an ‘o’ of curiosity and she freezes. Quentin finally turns, his face stormy. “Laurel...” he warns.

“Has he charged you with anything?” she demands indirectly of her father while focusing on Felicity. “Does he have a warrant?”

“Do you?” Felicity asks in a quiet voice, though she’s more cool and collected than Laurel would have expected.

Quentin shakes his head, annoyed. “Laurel, don’t get involved in this.” He opens the rear door of the car and gestures into the back seat. “Ms. Smoak, I really do need you to answer a few questions down at the station. It is in your best interests to cooperate.”

Felicity hesitates, entreating Laurel for advice with her eyes.

Quentin huffs. “Don’t make me find a reason to charge you with something.”

“Dad!” Laurel chides him. To Felicity, she says. “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

Felicity nods and gets into the car. 

As soon as the car door shuts behind Felicity, Laurel rounds on her father, demanding in a tight whisper. “Would you _please_ explain to me what is going on?”

Quentin’s eyes narrow, his jaw twitching with aggravation. “Not here.” He walks around the car away from her, pulling his keys from his pocket. “You’re gonna follow? Follow.” Then he’s in the driver’s seat and starting the car.

_What the hell?_ She swivels on her heel, biting back a gasp of offense. How did he get from concern over her safety to using hardball tactics? Sometimes he was completely infuriating!

She hears her phone chime in her purse, and drags it out with one hand while she opens her car door with the other. It’s Felicity. _Thanks back there._

_Did he tell you what this is about?_ she types back before starting the car.

_No._

_Don’t say anything until I get there._ Laurel tosses the phone onto the seat and peels away from the curb in pursuit.

* * *

In the hallway outside the interrogation room, Laurel grabs Quentin’s arm. “I’m not going to let you question my friend without some kind of explanation!”

Quentin shuts the door, leaving Felicity alone in the room on the other side. “Friend? How long have you known this... friend?” The last word drops like an accusation.

“Just since yesterday. But—” she continues when her father’s mouth opens, “—I trust her. Oliver introduced us.” After the excitement of the afternoon, Laurel trusts her for more reasons than that, but she can’t explain that without raising a hundred more questions.

Quentin’s mouth closes and a look of interest replaces the annoyance on his face. “He did, did he?” 

She knows that look. It’s the look he gets when he’s fitting together pieces of a puzzle. Though she knows she inherited that from him, now it just worries her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“The usual, when it comes to you.” He grimaces. “All roads lead back to Oliver Queen.”

“She works for his family’s company, Dad.”

“Hundreds of people work for his company, Laurel.” He lowers his voice, the grave concern from the bar back in his voice, now that Felicity is out of earshot. He taps one finger with a percussive slap on a file folder that he is holding. “Why does _this_ one have her digital fingerprints all over your system at CNRI?”

Laurel’s mouth drops open. Is _that_ what this is all about?

His mouth forms a knowing grimace. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a suspect to interrogate.” He walks past her and into the room where Felicity waits.

Laurel stops the door from closing with a slap of the palm of her hand. Felicity jumps in the hard metal chair. Quentin pauses mid-stride and turns to look at her, eyebrow raised.

Laurel lets the door close behind her, and then pulls up the chair beside Felicity and sits. “First of all, any questions you ask my _client_ can be asked with me present.” At her dad’s frustrated shake of his head, she continues, “Second of all, I _asked_ her to come look at my system.”

Whatever he was expecting her to say, it wasn’t that. “You asked her.”

“Yes. I was worried about the mob connections of my client. She swept my system to make sure there were no bugs.”

“Is this true, Ms. Smoak?” he asks sharply, placing his hands flat on the table and leaning in toward her.

It makes Felicity swallow nervously. “Yes, officer... detective... sir...?” She looks to Laurel for help and Laurel waves at her to continue. “I’ve been helping Laurel with her case—translation software, sweeping her system for bugs, doing research...”

He sits down in the chair across from them, suddenly calm. “Does this research include...” He opens the file he had been holding, and drags a finger across a notation on the top sheet. “...altering files and images for pages in Laurel’s search history?”

Laurel’s blood runs cold. The tech guys had gone that deep into her system? Did they come to the same conclusions as Laurel had about Oliver? She darts her gaze over to Felicity, who is suddenly studying some initials carved into the distressed surface of the table.

Quentin gives the two of them a slow smile, as if Felicity had reacted exactly the way he hoped. “There are also a few other interesting searches on your work computer that I would love to ask you about as well.”

Laurel frowns and places a hand over Felicity’s. “You don’t need to answer that.” Especially not if they would lead to Oliver and his mob connections. She would not allow that secret to get out, and certainly not hours after she had promised to protect it. Felicity looks back up, gratitude in her eyes. Laurel turns back to her dad. “Unless you are charging Ms. Smoak with something specific, we’re going to be leaving.”

Quentin, instead of being flustered by her stall tactic, simply closes the file. “Not at this time.” What she wouldn’t give to read what’s there.

“Let’s go, then.” Laurel moves toward the door. Felicity rises, gathering her things, and follows her. Looking back at Quentin, she sees the expressions on his face flow through a strange sequence of curiosity, disappointment and pride. “Felicity,” she says quietly, “go on ahead and wait for me by the front desk. I’ll be along in a moment.”

Felicity nods, seeming to understand Laurel’s need for a quiet word with her father. 

As soon as Felicity is out of earshot, her father blows out a breath. “You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

“You mean people worth defending?” she asks testily, her voice rising in challenge. “If that’s what you meant, then yeah.”

“Laurel...”

“No, Dad, I’m tired of you assuming that everyone I associate with will fall short of your impossible standards. First it was Oliver, both before _and_ after he came back, then it was Tommy, and now Felicity...”

“I’m just trying to protect you—”

“Am I still five years old?” A flash of righteous anger rushes through her, right to the fingertips. “I am your daughter, but I’m a grown woman. Talk to me about these things, Dad, instead of making snap judgments!”

“Snap judgments?”

“You drag Oliver in under suspicion of being the vigilante, you raid Verdant to catch Tommy dealing drugs, and now you practically threaten to cuff Felicity in front of a bunch of cops so you can accuse her of hacking! What’s next? Should I warn Joanna to get rid of her knock-off Fendi handbag or you’re going to come after her for fraud?”

“Sweetheart,” he answers, fists clenched. “I tried to talk to you. That’s why I came looking for you in the first place. But she was there. And I couldn’t risk—”

“Risk what?”

He doesn’t answer that specific question. “This is police work. If we don’t act quickly, we lose the element of surprise!”

Suddenly she understands. “And you’re afraid that if you tell me what you suspect, that I’ll warn them.” Her voice is flat with accusation.

An awkward silence falls between them, soon stretching longer than she can stand. “I’m sorry that I care more about showing compassion than your definition of justice,” she tosses at him. “Justice that automatically assumes that the innocent are guilty!” With that, she turns on her heel and heads for the front desk, officers parting ahead of her fury.

“You’d better make sure of their innocence before you get in over your head!” he calls after her, but she doesn’t turn back to respond. Then more quietly when he thinks she can’t hear, he adds, “I won’t apologize for trying to protect you.” 

She keeps walking.

Laurel turns a corner and sees Felicity leaning against a wall by the door, huddled in on herself and her back to the front desk. Laurel feels a pang of regret that she managed to get yet another one of her friends in trouble with the police. Felicity looks up at the sound of Laurel’s footsteps approaching, her face tight with worry. Laurel doesn’t blame her.

Felicity slips something into her pocket and turns around. “Is everything okay?”

Laurel shakes her head. “No. It never is.”

Felicity straightens suddenly, her eyes widening. “What now?”

Laurel puts a hand on her shoulder to reassure her. “Not you. Just me. And a new variation of the same argument I’ve been having with my father since I was sixteen.”

Her worry softens into an understanding smirk. “With me it was my mom.”

Laurel holds the door for her as they start toward Laurel’s car. “Are you always butting heads?”

Felicity shakes her head. “Not anymore.”

“How did you finally work it out?” Laurel asks with interest. “Did she apologize? Did you? Or...” Laurel pauses, uncomfortable. “Is she gone now?”

Felicity smiles. “No, I am. Nothing like moving halfway across the country to settle an argument.”

Laurel laughs. “Sometimes I think I should do the same.” She pulls out her key fob and auto-unlocks the door for Felicity. “Save myself a lot of trouble.”

Felicity opens the door, and holds it there. “I sense a ‘but’...”

Laurel takes a slow breath and looks around at the buildings on the street she knows so well, the sidewalk she used to play on as a child, at the skyline in the distance, the only one she’s ever known... “But then I think I’d miss Starling City too much.”

Felicity follows her gaze and nods. “I get it. Even for the short number of years I’ve lived here, I get it.” A light breeze kicks up then, causing Felicity to wrinkle her nose at the smells that come across it. “It’s almost like she has a personality.”

“That she does.” Maybe that’s why Laurel’s always identified with the vigilante’s accusation, ‘You have failed this city.’ She wants to protect Starling City, the people in it, and help her become great.

The thought leaves her with a pang of regret—it’s really what her father wants, too. But the three of them—Quentin, Laurel and the vigilante—all go about it in such different ways. Can they ever be reconciled?

Laurel sighs and gets into the car. The doors shut behind them, and it’s silent for a few moments, with only the sound of the engine starting, the seatbelts latching, the radio humming to life in the background. Laurel opens her mouth to make sure Felicity wants to get her car before they do anything else, but Felicity speaks first.

“He’s going to come after me again, isn’t he?” Her voice sounds so small, so anxious. Like real fear, not just nerves. Even more telling—she hasn’t babbled once since they left the station.

Laurel shifts in the driver’s seat to face her. “I’m not going to lie to you. If he thinks he has a reason to, he will come after you again in a heartbeat. My father is a determined man.”

Felicity lowers her eyes to the dirt-spattered car mat at her feet. “I see.”

Laurel presses her hand onto Felicity’s forearm and gives it a gentle squeeze. “So let’s not give him a reason.”

Felicity sucks air between her teeth, showing them in a lopsided grimace. “That’s going to be hard—especially if you need the kind of help I think you need.”

Laurel frowns. Felicity’s right. Laurel has exhausted her resources for now—she doesn’t work for a high-powered law firm with a bevy of legal assistants at her beck and call, she works for a pro bono outfit running on donations. And she desperately needs Felicity’s expertise. “Well, then. Let’s not give him any reasons he can find.” She rubs lightly at Felicity’s forearm and Felicity smiles in response. Laurel swivels the steering wheel to get ready to pull out onto the street. “Get your car, and then where?”

Felicity thinks for a minute. “My apartment.” She snags the navigator from the dashboard. “I’ll program the GPS.”

Laurel pulls out then, but as she does, her attention is attracted by a motorcycle coming to a stop at the curb in front of the station. As the figure recedes into the distance behind them, she sees the rider remove his helmet. Is it... Oliver? It’s too hard to tell.

But he seems to watch them for as long as she can keep him in her rearview mirror.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad you guys are still with me on this!
> 
> Thanks blithers and van_el for last minute beta help. :)

Felicity’s phone buzzes as soon as they’re pulling away from the curb. She ignores it as long as it takes to program Laurel’s GPS, but then slips it out to read. _Where are you?_

Before she can reply, Laurel’s glancing over. “Oliver?”

Felicity breathes out a laugh. “Who else?” She turns the phone upside down on her lap. He can wait a minute. She _had_ told him she was fine, and not to worry. If he isn’t listening to her, then... 

Laurel shakes her head almost fondly. “I thought that might be him behind us.”

Felicity starts, then turns around in her seat to look through the rear window. “He’s following us?” She can see a solitary motorcycle beam among the pairs of car headlights, pacing them at a safe distance. He better be using that voice-to-text app she installed on his phone, or they’re going to have words.

“Since the police station.” Laurel’s voice is calm, like she hadn’t expected anything different. “Did you contact him while you were being questioned?”

So much for stealth. “Yes.” Or to be more truthful… “Even before I got there.” Felicity winces in apology. “I was worried that…” 

“That you were in big trouble and that I wouldn’t be able to get you out of it.” 

The silence after Laurel’s words stretches just long enough that Felicity’s about to launch into a torrent of awkward chatter, but Laurel stays it with a hand on her leg. 

“It’s okay. I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to get you out of it myself.” Laurel glances back at the phone. “Go ahead and answer it. He’s going to follow us until you do.”

Felicity flips the phone into her palm smoothly, texting back, _You already know where. Are you going to follow us all the way home?_

After a pause, the phone rings. He’s talking as soon as she has it to her ear. _“You’re sure you’re fine?”_

“I _said_ I was fine.” She smiles over at Laurel as she says, “Laurel came and saved the day.”

 _“Good.”_ She can’t read the emotion in the word with all the traffic noise. _“I don’t think you have a police tail on you, but I don’t want to take any chances.”_

“From the way things went in the station… I doubt it. Detective Lance breezed me through the station without even recording my visit.”

Laurel’s head whips toward her in surprise.

Felicity continues. “It was like he had suspicions, but no hard evidence. Like he wanted to see how I would respond.”

_“And how did you respond?”_

“I hardly got a chance to respond at all. Laurel was there and going to bat for me before I could get myself into trouble. Your secrets are still safe.” To clarify for Laurel’s benefit, she adds, “The mob connection, et cetera.” There’s a lot unsaid in that ‘et cetera’ but there has to be with Laurel listening.

_“Stay on your guard, though. Even with Laurel.”_

Felicity keeps her eyes ahead. “Will do. Heading home now.” Then she teases, “I still have the night off, don’t I?”

Oliver grunts assent, then ends the call. A moment later, he zooms past on the passenger side, curving away at the next corner. 

“He’s really protective of you.”

Felicity turns to see Laurel’s considering look. “Yes, it’s one of his more endearing-slash-annoying traits. Like…” Compelled by gratitude, or maybe a need to share just a little bit of this new life that now consumes her, she searches for a way to tell Laurel the truth without telling the complete truth. Something that will make sense with what Laurel has learned today. “...once he got me involved in his secret world he felt responsible for me.”

“Was it an accident? You finding out?”

Felicity considers. Was it? She had some pretty strong suspicions even before he magically appeared in her car, bleeding from a gunshot wound. “Not really. I knew there was something more to him and his strange I.T. requests. So it wasn’t a huge surprise when the truth came out.”

“Strange requests?”

“Yeah, um…” There’s at least one she can discuss. “He came to me with a syringe full of Vertigo, and called it a new sports drink. A _syringe_.”

Laurel’s hands tighten on the steering wheel and her eyes grow wide. “What? Seriously?”

“Seriously. He was trying to help Thea after her whole accident thing, using his Bratva contacts to find out who was selling the stuff. But I never knew any of that when he made the request.”

“And I’m just learning about it now. But why come to you? Why not the police?”

Felicity lets out a humorless laugh. “After the warm reception he receives from your father every time they meet?”

“Okay, okay, I get that. But...” Her voice falls a bit. “...why not me?”

“I...” Felicity could give Laurel a handful of explanations. He has you up on a pedestal, a bright part of his past that he doesn’t want to tarnish with his dark ways now. He doesn’t want to get in Tommy’s way, even back then, before Tommy was in the know, before they were on the outs. He knows you always want to do the right thing, the legal thing, and he’s been living outside the law for so long. It’s all of those and the whole vigilante secret and more that she can’t put into words. “...it’s Oliver. Can anyone figure out why he does what he does?”

Laurel just presses her lips together, conceding the point.

“Anyway,” Felicity says, seeing the bar up ahead, and her car parked in the tiny lot, “enough about Oliver. Time to help someone who’ll actually appreciate it.”

“Right.”

Before Felicity starts up the car to head to her place, she fires up her phone tracking app. Diggle’s at Carly’s, as expected. Oliver? At _Verdant_. Or at least his personal phone is. She’s going to just have to trust that he is, too. More than that, she wants to believe it. To believe that she is trusted in return.

* * *

“Gotcha!” Felicity crows.

“Really?” Laurel moves from the DVD shelf to sit beside her. She’d spent the first thirty minutes looking over Felicity’s shoulder, but had wandered off, seemingly tired of staring at lines of code. “Got a name?”

“Better. An IP address. Which I can trace to a location.” Felicity takes a swig of coffee, the double-caffeinated kind, and allows herself a smug grin. “I knew this cracker couldn’t hide from me long. Now to see what connections there are between him and your client’s scorned ex, Boris Yashkin.”

Felicity had been second-guessing herself for a moment there. It had been so easy to find the bug on Laurel’s computer, so she had assumed that she would be able to trace it back to its source just as easily. The guy had set up an intricate web of spoofed IPs and digital blind alleys. But finally, _finally_ , she had him.

“Sorry that took forever.”

Laurel looks down at her mug clasped between her hands. “I’m only on my second cup.”

Felicity shrugs. “Forever in hacker minutes anyway. It wasn’t like I was trying to bust into a multinational company or anything…” Laurel gives her an odd look. “...which I haven’t done…” She finishes under her breath. “...since the other day.”

Laurel clinks her mug to Felicity’s in congratulations. “So what now? We send in the police?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no. It’s way too early for that. This guy is just working for someone else. And from the evidence I’ve found so far, I doubt Yashkin pulls the strings. _That_ ‘s who we have to find.” She opens up another window and begins to type. “So now that I have a starting point, I can run a trace the other direction, to all the other connections this guy has in his network.”

“Will this take ‘forever,’ too?”

Felicity tilts her head back and forth. “Probably longer. Maybe you should go home...”

“No. I’ll wait.” She stands and wanders back to the DVD cabinet.

A couple hours later, a satisfying beep startles Felicity from her coding fugue state. She looks at the time—almost 2AM—and pulls the thumbnail she’s been chewing on idly out of her mouth. It’ll get a new coat of polish tomorrow anyway.

Despite the coffee, Laurel is curled up asleep on the other side of the couch, the DVD menu flickering on the screen on mute. “Laurel?” Felicity calls out softly. When she doesn’t stir, Felicity nudges her gently with a palm. 

Laurel groans softly, and rises from the upholstered arm of the couch. She looks better than anyone who just took an impromptu nap has any right to look. “Done? Got a name?”

“Got a list to narrow down. There are a lot of... surprising names.” And Felicity would bet her hacker cred that many of them are on The List. She turns the screen so that Laurel can see. “I’ll send this to you through a secure dropbox.” With a couple of clicks it’s already done. “Maybe you could see if Sonya recognizes any of them...?”

Laurel shakes her head, rubbing at her eyes. “Sonya won’t talk to me. She’s too scared after what happened at the jail. I’m going to see Mr. Yashkin at his shipyard tomorrow morning.”

“Hitting the former fiancé in his lair.”

Laurel nods. “I’ve got to hope that he’ll give something away. Some tell that will lead me in the right direction. The hearing is tomorrow afternoon.”

“Alone? Is that safe?”

Her shoulders straighten. “I have to. I don’t want to get anyone else at work involved in this. And Oliver said the Bratva would leave me alone, right?”

“He did…” Felicity’s lips twist. “But we don’t really know if this third party is Bratva at all.” She sets the laptop aside, stands and walks over to the DVD shelf. Inside her complete box set of _Leverage_ is a hidden lock box. The real DVDs are long saved to her hard drive, they were getting scratched up with too much use. Opening it, she pulls out a tiny device. “Here. Take this when you go.”

Laurel frowns at the device as Felicity places it in her hand. “What is it?”

“Something I came up with the other day. It’s called a sonic incap—never mind. Think of it as a high-tech rape whistle.” Felicity touches her collar. “You can clip it here, under your hair. Screaming will set it off. But…” Felicity adds a pair of foam ear plugs beside the tiny device. “Make sure you wear those or you’ll go deaf temporarily.” Felicity chuckles, and adds, “I’d show you how it works, but I’m already in enough trouble with my landlord for all the ‘unauthorized paint’ in this place.”

“Okay.” Laurel carefully takes the device and places it in her purse. “Thanks. I hope I won’t need it.” Laurel swivels to look at the clock. “I’d better get going. What time is—?”

The doorbell rings. Felicity and Laurel look at each other before looking toward the door. “Who the…?”

As she rises to answer it, Felicity half-expects it to be Oliver. Although if it were, he’d be coming through the window, not ringing the bell. Maybe it’s Dig? Still, seems like he would have called first. She puts one eye up to peer through the peephole.

Tommy Merlyn stands there, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his tousled mop of hair.

“Laurel?” Felicity says quietly, gesturing at the door. “It’s your boyfriend.”

“Tommy?” Laurel asks, stiffening with dismay. She fumbles a hand into her pocket and pulls out her phone. “Oh, no. He tried to call… and text me… several times tonight. I must have slept through it.”

Felicity hadn’t noticed anything either, she was so engrossed in her work. “Are you supposed to be here? What do you want me to do?”

“ _Supposed_ to be?” Laurel makes a face, standing and stretching. “I’m here because I needed your help. Tommy knows better.” She moves past Felicity to open the door.

As the door opens, Tommy’s already apologizing toward the carpet. “I know it’s late, but I didn’t have your number, all I could find was your address, and I thought that maybe…” He stops as he sees Laurel in front of him. His worry, instead of switching to anger, dissolves into relief. “Oh, thank god.”

Laurel doesn’t hesitate, drawing him into her arms and kissing his cheek. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”

When he pulls back, Tommy looks over Laurel’s shoulder at Felicity. He doesn’t seem as upset or suspicious as he had the other night at CNRI. “Get a lot accomplished?”

Felicity nods, but Laurel says, “Yes. Quite a lot. Drive me home? It’s been a _really_ long day.” She threads her arm through his, and calls over her shoulder, “Thanks for everything. I’ll call you if I find out anything.”

“Same here,” Felicity promises, and closes the door behind her.

Felicity throws herself across the couch as soon as her butt touches the cushions. It’s going to take her a while to get to sleep. Not just because of the double-strength coffee, but because of the buzz she always gets after a satisfying hack. 

Suddenly she feels something odd under her head. Sitting up, she sees that Laurel’s purse is embedded between two pillows. Reaching for her phone, she starts to scroll to the recent calls. Hopefully they haven’t already gotten too far down the road.

There’s a knock. Oh, good. Laurel realized it already. Picking the purse up, she heads to the door and opens it with a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad you found—”

It’s not Laurel. 

It’s a man about twice her size, dressed head-to-toe in dark colors. She drops both phone and purse and stumbles back in fear and surprise. Before she can blink, or even make a sound, his enormous leather-covered palm is covering her mouth. “Very good. The boss will be glad I found you, too.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it’s long, but there was so much ground to cover!

Laurel pulls Tommy closer to her as they walk toward the elevator. He’s solid and warm and just what she needs right now. Just a little strength to help her get through the next few days.

Tommy, as always, senses her mood immediately. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

She gives his arm an extra squeeze. “Just thinking about the case. Again.”

He pauses them just short of the elevator, turning her gently to face him. “Rougher than usual, huh?”

Laurel smiles, tired but thankful. “Yeah.” And more personal than usual. She never expected when she took on Sonya’s case that it would reveal so much about Oliver in the process. “But I really hope there’ll be a breakthrough soon.”

“Me too, for your sake.” He shifts uncomfortably, his face screwing up with tension. “You’re… staying safe. Right?”

Laurel pauses a little too long before nodding. “As safe as I can be with the Russian mob involved,” she says quietly. “I have a lot of support around me, though. My dad, Felicity…”

She waits to see the reaction Tommy will have to Felicity’s name. He’d said he understood her need for help earlier this afternoon. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead he says, “Oliver.”

Laurel flinches instead. “Oliver? What do you—?”

“Laurel, come on.” His head tilts ever-so-slightly to the side. “I know that he’s been trying to protect you from them.”

“I…” She thinks about denying it, especially after the yacht-load of secrets Oliver confessed to today, but the look on Tommy’s face—understanding but sad—makes it impossible. “I didn’t think it was my place to say. But yes, he told me all about it today.”

Tommy lets out a pained sigh. “So you do know. Strangely, I think I’m glad. I didn’t know how much longer I could bear to keep that secret from you.”

“Is that secret the reason why…” Laurel can’t help but ask, “...you quit working at the club?”

“Ah…” The word creaks out, full of the sound of indecision. “Yes. Lots of things related to that, but yes.”

Laurel pulls him into her arms, then. “I’m sorry. It must have been a shock to learn how much he’s been keeping from us all. Especially after how close you two used to be.”

They sway there in the hall for a long moment, not speaking. Then Tommy says into her hair, “I’m surprised it wasn’t more of a shock to _you_.”

“It was… it’s just—”

A throat clears a few yards away from them. “Excuse me. It is necessary to pass.”

Laurel starts in surprise at both the words and the phrasing, pulling out of Tommy’s hug to look. A large man stands there, a mild expression on his face. She suddenly realizes that they are blocking the hallway. “Oh, I’m sorry, we’ll get out of your way.” She punches the elevator down button as she moves.

“Thank you,” the man says, a lilt to his words, and nods pleasantly before slipping past them. She wonders how long he was standing there. 

The elevator dings open, and Laurel steps in, waiting for the doors to close behind her before continuing her earlier thought. “Anyway, I just knew something was up. Oliver’s been so different, so distant, and all the unexplained behavior? It just makes sense.”

“What are you going to tell your father?”

Laurel stifles a gasp of indignation. “Nothing! I promised I wouldn’t. Didn’t you do the same?”

“Yes.” Tommy squeezes his eyes tight for a moment, grimacing. “Mostly because I didn’t know what he would do in retaliation, not because I was protecting him.”

“Oh, Tommy…” She reaches out a hand to smooth out some of the tenseness in the set of his shoulders. “I know he did terrible things on that island. He really seems to hate himself for them, too. But I believe him when he says he had no choice, that he had to live that way to survive. Now that’s all in the past. He would never hurt you intentionally.”

“‘Did?’ ‘In the past?’” He stills under her ministrations. “What exactly did he tell you?”

“About the Bratva leader and the Island…” Suddenly she realizes they may be talking about two completely different things. “What did he tell _you?_ “

He doesn’t answer her. “What does the Russian Mob have to do with the Island? Or Oliver?” His eyes go wide in panic. “Is he _actually_ involved with them? Oh my god…” At that moment the elevator reaches the lobby and the doors start to open. He turns and punches the close button with a vicious jab, and pulls the elevator stop button with grunt. “How could I have been so naïve! Russian model, my ass!” 

“Tommy! Calm down! You didn’t know about the Bratva after all?”

Once again, he ignores her question. “That’s what he told you. That he’s involved with the Bratva.”

“That he’s a member of the Bratva, yes.”

“Oh my god…” he repeats. “That son of a bitch.”

“But he doesn’t work for them, he hasn’t done any ‘jobs’ for them. His membership is mostly… honorary.”

Tommy scoffs. “ _Sure_ it is. I wonder how many of his so-called criminal targets ran afoul of the mob?”

She takes a step back at his vitriol. “Targets? What?” 

“He didn’t tell you anything else?”

Laurel searches Tommy’s face desperately for some idea of what he means, but she can’t find it there, only cold anger. “No… Should he have?”

“God _dammit_ ,” he growls, pushing the elevator stop button back in to the console. He stalks out into the lobby, leaving her blinking in his wake.

She snaps out of it when the doors start to close again. “Tommy. Wait!” she yells as soon as she’s free of the elevator. “What is going on?”

She catches up to him in the lot, already unlocking his car door. He spins to face her. “Oliver, that’s what. Always Oliver. Every damn thing is _always_ Oliver!” With a huff, he climbs into the driver’s seat and slams the door shut.

Laurel just stands there as he starts the car. Tommy is _so_ angry. Angry about _another_ secret, a secret he thought she knew, apparently. If it’s bad enough to make him fly off the handle like this…

The only thing she can do is stand there—wondering what in the hell could make happy-go-lucky, joking-and-smiling, always-caring Tommy go red with rage. She _has_ to find out… yet she is almost afraid to at the same time.

He turns toward her, and looks at her through the window, face filled with impatient anger. Then slowly, his expression softens into worry and regret. The car turns off and he rolls down the window. “Laurel?” His voice breaks on her name.

“Maybe I should drive myself home after all…” she says.

“No, please, wait—” He opens the door and gets out, rushing forward to envelop her in a hug. “I’m sorry. It’s not you I’m angry at.”

“I know,” she says, trying to let his warmth ease some of the turmoil she’s feeling. “I wish I knew _why._ “

“I _want_ to tell you, Laurel, god knows I do.” He pulls back and looks her in the eyes with his red-rimmed ones. “But it _has_ to come from Oliver himself.”

“Okay.” She understands. She would never have said anything to Tommy at all about the Bratva, except that he seemed to already know. “I’ll talk to him about it. After this case is wrapped up.”

Tommy tenses. “Alone?”

She smiles, and rubs a hand down his arm. “You can be there if you want.”

“No need.” He leans forward and kisses her cheek softly. “You’re Dinah Laurel Lance. You could make a grizzly bear back down.”

She smiles. There’s her Tommy again. “Let’s get home.”

She steps away to walk around the car, suddenly wondering what time it is. She reaches for her phone… and realizes that she does not have her purse. “Oh no!”

“What?” Tommy asks, halfway into his seat.

“I forgot my purse at Felicity’s. I need my phone.” And the device Felicity gave her. “I need to go back. I’ll only be a minute.”

She breaks into a jog, pushing past the exhaustion of a long day, a long night, and the emotional confrontation of only moments ago. She debates using the stairs for a moment, and then decides she’s just not up to it. The elevator ride goes quickly enough, and she’s down the hall and knocking on the door.

She hates that she was so forgetful. Hopefully Felicity isn’t already asleep. There’s no answer, so after a minute or so, she rings the doorbell, wincing about the necessity.

Still nothing. She gives it one more ring, just in case.

With a sigh, she returns to the car, to where Tommy waits. “She must have already gone to bed,” she says as she gets into the passenger seat. “Do you have her number? I’ll leave her a message.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t, remember? That’s why I came in person.”

“Huh. Well, I can call her at work tomorrow, I guess.”

He nods and puts the car in reverse. She’s asleep before they make it to the first turn.

* * *

Laurel hangs up, frowning. “She wasn’t there yet. The receptionist seemed to think that wasn’t strange at all.” She holds out the phone to Tommy to return it.

He doesn’t reach for it. “Maybe...” He buttons his shirt, not meeting her eyes. “…call Oliver?”

Laurel raises an eyebrow, waiting until he raises his eyes. “You really think he keeps track of her that closely?”

His flat stare is a definite yes.

 _“Tommy?”_ Oliver says, answering on the second ring. She’s glad she didn’t wake him up. In fact, he sounds like he’s been awake for hours.

“No, it’s Laurel. I’m borrowing his phone. Listen… can you get ahold of Felicity for me? I left my phone and purse at her place last night.” Before he can ask, she adds, “I don’t have her number without it.”

 _“Of course.”_ He’s gone for a minute or two, long enough that Laurel has to check to make sure they’re still connected. When he returns, he’s apologetic. _“I left a message. Looks like she’s still at home, but not answering.”_ Then he teases, _“Maybe she has a hangover. How much wine did you two down last night?”_

She laughs. “You know I’m a lightweight. That stuff puts me right to sleep. Maybe she’s just in the shower.”

The line is silent for a moment. Did she actually embarrass Oliver Queen? _“Here, I’ll text the number so you can try her later.”_

She hangs up with a thanks. Just after ending the call, she realizes, how did Oliver know Felicity was home if she wasn’t answering?

* * *

“Thanks, Joanna. I’ll check in with you before heading to court.” Laurel tucks Tommy’s phone into a different handbag. She’s filled it with whatever she can—the spare credit card she’s kept aside for emergencies, her CNRI ID badge that happened to be hanging around the vanity mirror at home. 

Between reviewing her case files, Laurel has tried Felicity on and off for about an hour before finally leaving her apartment. Hopefully, when Felicity is feeling better, she’ll give Laurel a call back. She can’t put it off any longer, it’s time to visit Boris Yashkin at his shipyard. And she’ll have to do without Felicity’s high-tech 'rape whistle.' Instead, she grabs a spare can of mace. 

Then after a moment’s thought, she goes to the safe and reaches around the 12-gauge to retrieve a small handgun. Her father had trained her in its proper use long ago—she certainly feels more confident with it than the shotgun. She hesitates before closing the heavy door. Is protection, especially this kind of protection, really necessary? She’s only there to talk. Surely Yashkin would not threaten her, especially with the court case pending, and especially not after Oliver’s request to the Bratva to leave her alone, But Felicity’s warnings about a mysterious ‘third party’ echo in her ears, and she places the gun in her bag with the mace.

She’s determined _not_ to use it. But if she has to, in the most dire circumstance, she will. And she’ll lock it back up before the hearing this afternoon.

Briefcase in hand, bag over her other shoulder, Laurel strides into Star Marine. The place looks completely legit, properly 'all-American,' she assumes to allay suspicions. Dock workers pass her without taking much notice. It’s a busy morning there, which could be good and bad for her. Good if he’ll be so distracted by business that he lets crucial information slip. Bad if he’s so busy that he won’t see her at all.

The office is small, though well-appointed. Laurel takes note of the placement of the windows, the door in the back which might lead to an office or storeroom, the file cabinets and computer on the solitary desk, where a woman sits typing. She looks up when Laurel enters. “May I help you?” There is no trace of an accent.

Laurel nods, and steps forward. “Yes. My name is Laurel Lance. I’d like to speak with Mr. Yashkin.”

“Concerning?” The woman, probably Yashkin’s secretary or assistant, tucks a loose strand of graying black hair behind her ear.

“Sonya Larina. I’m her defense lawyer.”

The woman’s eyes widen slightly. In surprise? Suspicion? Laurel can’t read her. “I will call for him. Mr. Yashkin is out on the docks right now, so it may take a few minutes.” She gestures for Laurel to take a seat.

As Laurel makes herself comfortable, the assistant gets on the phone, asks for Yashkin to be paged, and goes back about her business. Nothing odd or strange, nothing to give any outward appearance that this business is a front for the Bratva. The mechanic’s shop in the Glades was so easily suspect, but this place? She would never have guessed.

Yashkin comes in a few minutes later. He’s in his fifties, a little chubby, with a broad smile to accompany his apology, “Sorry to keep you waiting. I have much to do before the hearing, you see.” He does have a trace accent, though it is much more difficult to detect. As a second-generation American-born citizen, he likely inherited his Bratva rank.

“I completely understand. I promise not to take up much of your time. I just want to clarify a few points of your statement to the police.”

He gestures toward the door at the back. “Would you feel more comfortable in my office?”

“Whatever is easiest for you.”

He leads her back, and he pulls out the chair for her across from his large wooden desk. Then he goes to shut the door. “Leave it open, if you would. This won’t take long.”

Yashkin hesitates, glancing out to where his assistant sits, and then nods. “Of course.”

Surprisingly, Yashkin tells her anything she wants to know. That he fell for Sonya online, and invited her to come to Starling City to get to know each other. That he had come to realize that even after a long courtship and engagement, Sonya did not return his feelings in the same way. In fact, just before the warehouse fire on the edge of his property, he had been planning to end the engagement. “I have no idea why she would want to hurt me.” His tone is regretful, not vindictive.

Of course, before Sonya stopped speaking to her, she had pleaded that someone else had framed her for the fire. Yashkin is either innocent or a very good liar. Unfortunately, she sees a lot more of the latter in her line of work. 

“One last question. You indicated that you met Sonya through an online dating site. I don’t have the name in my files. Which one was it?”

“Hmm, it was… I had tried several in the past few years, because I have been so unlucky in love… still very unlucky, as you see…” He lifts his eyes toward the ceiling. “I think it was… Russia Love. Yes. russialove.com.”

“Is this a Bratva-run site?”

Yashkin tenses, face flushing hot. “What? I do not know anything about who runs the site. It was recommended to me.”

“So your Bratva membership has nothing to do with your search for a Russian bride?”

“No—I…” Yashkin spits out, flustered. His eyebrows draw down. “I am a shipyard owner, not a mob-man!”

“I see,” Laurel answers quietly, standing. “I must have been misinformed. Thank you for your cooperation. I will see you in court later.”

She shakes his shell-shocked hand, making sure to keep the feeling of victory off her face. His reaction was exactly what she needed. Her ploy to mention the Bratva somehow, though completely off-the-cuff, let him know that she was on to him. Let him sweat out the next few hours wondering what else she knows.

This time, words won the battle—more powerful than the untouched gun and mace in her handbag.

* * *

And now for the war.

On the stand, Yashkin is much less composed. He’s no longer acting like the sad-sack jilted lover. As he tells the same story he had given Laurel in his office, his eyes keep darting from Sonya—who is as still and unspeaking as a statue, her gray prison uniform only adding to the effect—to various members of the audience. She doesn’t recognize any of them, except the assistant and the man sitting beside her. He seems familiar, but she can’t place where. He’s quite large—maybe he is Yashkin’s bodyguard?

During Laurel’s cross-examination of Yashkin, she carefully avoids direct mention of the Bratva, which she knows will be immediately objected to and thrown out. But Yashkin doesn’t seem to know that. He gets more and more visibly nervous as he speaks. Is he waiting for the other shoe to drop? Just before she can say “No further questions,” he turns his attention to Sonya. “Sonya, I’m sorry. Whatever I did to make you hate me so, I’m sorry. I still love you—”

Laurel is happy to let him ramble himself into a confession, but the prosecution is quick to shut him up. “Objection! Witness’s testimony is immaterial to this case.”

The judge orders Yashkin’s last statements to be stricken from the record, but he continues to ramble as he leaves the stand, and is escorted from the courtroom.

When he’s completely gone, she sees Sonya relax ever-so-slightly. Maybe this is the time to reason with Sonya again. “Your honor, may I have a few minutes to confer with my client?”

The judge shares a brief look with the prosecutor. Illegal immigration is becoming more and more of a hot-button issue, and she knows Judge Adams is up for reappointment soon. Laurel silently calls on Lady Justice to show her some mercy. Then the judge turns her eyes on Sonya, silent and scared. She announces, “We will break for a five-minute recess.”

“Sonya?” she asks gently, nodding to the court-appointed translator on her other side. “Are you sure you won’t testify? I have assurances from the Brotherhood that you will not be harmed.”

The translator raises an eyebrow, but Laurel knows what is said here is protected by attorney-client privilege. She nods for the translator to do her job. As the translator speaks, Sonya is unmoving, even at the Bratva mention. 

“Sonya… I found The American.”

 _That_ gets a reaction. “You found him?”

“He talked to The Brotherhood after what happened to you in detention, asked them to lay off. They agreed.”

Her eyes go wide in disbelief. “How did you—?”

“I can’t say. He is a client as well.”

“Now?”

Laurel doesn’t answer, feeling as protective of Oliver as she is of Sonya. “Yashkin knows he no longer has their protection in this matter. Did you see the way he almost broke down during his testimony? If you tell your side of the story, the _truth_ , you don’t have to fear reprisals from him or The Brotherhood.”

Sonya bites her lip, thinking. 

“One more minute,” Judge Adams warns from the bench.

“We don’t have much time, Sonya. This is your last chance. It will be prison, deportation or both if you don’t speak up for yourself.”

“Ms. Lance, time is up. Are you ready to call your first witness?”

Laurel holds Sonya’s gaze, and is rewarded with a tiny nod. “Your honor, I’d like to call the defendant, Sonya Larina, to the stand.”

* * *

The gavel sounds with a loud tap. “I will have my verdict in the morning.” The judge gathers her papers and the courtroom begins to clear behind them.

Laurel gives Sonya a brief, reassuring hug before she is led away by the bailiff. “Tomorrow you will be a free woman, I promise.”

“Thank you,” Sonya says, in English, the Russian lilt making the words melodic.

She watches Sonya disappear through the door, and suddenly thrums with a realization, just out of reach. Why did Sonya’s words ring such a bell?

She turns and sees Yashkin’s assistant leaving the courtroom, the bodyguard trailing her. As she watches, they try to get past a knot of people gathered outside the doors. “Excuse me,” the man says. “It is necessary to pass.” Then the two of them slip out of sight.

Laurel gasps, shoving her files and documents into her briefcase as quickly as possible. That man had been in Felicity’s apartment building last night. _That_ is why he seemed so familiar! But until he spoke, she couldn’t place him.

The seconds tick by as she races to get out into the hallway. Skidding to a halt in her heels, she desperately searches in both directions. She cannot see either the assistant or the bodyguard anywhere.

Fumbling out Tommy’s phone as she strides toward the courthouse garage, she dials Felicity’s number. It rings and rings, just like before. “Please tell me you’re just sick, or busy, or something. Call me back at this number as soon as you can!”

She tries Oliver next. “Oliver!”

 _“Laurel?”_ Now he actually sounds sleepy. What strange hours he must keep.

“Tell me you’ve heard from Felicity today.”

 _“No, I’m sorry. I told you I would call you when I had.”_ His voice grows more alert with the word. _“Is something wrong?”_

“I don’t know. I think there might be. Do you have a key to Felicity’s place?”

The line is silent for a second too long. More embarrassment? _“No.”_

They must not be that far along in their relationship—if indeed there is a relationship at all. “Damn.” She gets her handbag with the gun and mace out of the locked trunk as she talks. She has a feeling if Felicity needs saving, then words will be of little use. She hops into her car and starts it up, heading toward Felicity’s apartment without a second thought. “There was a guy in the hall last night, and he was at Sonya’s hearing today, and he’s big, Oliver, like movie-enforcer big. What if the reason she hasn’t answered her door or her phone is because they took her? I mean, did you tell them to leave just me and Sonya alone, or Felicity as well? I mean—”

_“Slow down, Laurel, with all the rambling, you’re starting to sound like Felicity. What are you saying?”_

“I think Felicity might be in trouble.”

* * *

Laurel sprints away from the super’s door. Of _course_ he wasn’t at home. In front of Felicity’s door she dials the number one last time, and hears the ringtone within. Laurel waits, and then rings the doorbell again. Then knocks. There’s no answer, just like last night. She’s left with only one choice, to break in to Felicity’s apartment. She bends down in front of the lock to pick it with a hair pin. Luckily, she has plenty of experience from her teenage years. She’s ready to call her dad if this fails. She hopes to find Felicity in bed, passed out from cold medicine, or sleeping off an all-night hack, anything!

The lock clicks open. and she pushes it inward, calling out, “Felicity? Are you here?”

Her voice dies in her throat. There, amidst the brilliant greens and purples of the throw rug, lies her purse, contents spilling out. Beside it, Felicity’s phone.

Laurel kneels down beside the mess, gathering the items in shaking hands. She wants to believe that Felicity just dropped these in her exhaustion, and is in bed right beyond that door. But she knows she isn’t.

Then she hears the sound of rustling, the slide of a window. Someone’s there, in Felicity’s room.

She plucks the sonic device out of the jumble and clips it to her collar, jamming the plugs into her ears. Then she removes her handgun, and pulls the safety as quietly as possible. If someone’s there to take her... if someone followed her from the courthouse... she’s not going to let them take her without a fight.

As quietly as she can, she slips over to the door, slightly ajar. She peeks around the frame for just a second, gun cocked and ready. There, in the late afternoon light, a tall, dark figure lurks beside the un-slept-in bed. If she acts now, she can incapacitate him and then call the police…

She presses the button at her collar and an ear-shattering shriek emits from the device. It’s loud, but with the ear plugs, just short of bearable. There’s a shout and a groan, then a thump. She swivels around the door frame and trains her pistol on the intruder…

It’s the vigilante. 

He’s kneeling on the floor beside the window, holding his head in his hands, keening in pain. As she watches, stunned, he pulls back the hood to rub at his ears.

There’s no mistaking it.

Her gun hand drops to her side. “O—Oliver?”


	16. Chapter 16

Felicity spends the entire van ride in the dark. Not just because it’s dark outside, or because there are no windows in the van. She has no idea how many van windows there are or any sense of their general direction.

She can’t move, she can’t talk, screaming would come out as only a muffled groan. The guy thought of almost everything: she is bound, gagged and blindfolded.

But she can hear. That’s why she knows it’s a van. A van with grungy floors at that, yuck.

The man who took her—manhandling her into restraints with ease, Diggle would be unhappy to hear—only spoke one more sentence to her. A short, “In you go” before she was tossed roughly onto a thinly carpeted surface, the van doors shutting with a click. 

But not ten minutes later, she overhears a conversation over a phone, which seems to go on and on. He’s a regular chatty Cathy.

In Russian. So she can’t understand a word.

Between listening for any traffic noise she can, and trying to memorize the sequence of right and left turns, she thinks. Why has she been kidnapped? Surely if they thought her a real threat, she would have been killed, right at her door.

Felicity swallows. Best not to dwell on that.

Did Oliver piss off the Bratva? Felicity tries to remember exactly what he had told Laurel this afternoon. That they had promised to leave Laurel and her client alone, but did he mention Felicity?

She can’t remember. Her memory has always been good, but it’s not eidetic. 

Why would they even _want_ to antagonize Oliver? Don’t they know that this will end with someone’s chest on the other end of an arrow shaft? Several someones.

No. Of course they don’t. They don’t know Oliver is the vigilante. Can’t know.

Perhaps it’s to chastise him for getting involved with another Bratva member’s business. Warn him that he should not mix his personal and mob life.

Personal life? Does Felicity really fit that definition? Oliver certainly does in hers. She _has_ no personal life outside of Team Arrow. Oliver, on the other hand, has so many balls in the air. Sometimes she wonders how he keeps them from hitting the floor.

So what about the ball labeled ‘Felicity’ screamed ‘kidnapping target?’ Not that balls screamed or anything. Could they sense that Felicity was… important to Oliver somehow, beyond being an employee?

Felicity swallows again. Best not to dwell on that, either.

She hasn’t changed her mind about keeping things professional (vigilante-style?) until he’s finished with The List, not in the few days they’ve been dealing with the Bratva, anyway. And watching him with Laurel, watching him dance around their past, around the issues between them… she should really stay out of that, too, until it settles.

If it ever does.

But here she is, on the sticky floor of a van—god, that’d better not be gum—caught up in Oliver’s life in ways that she never would have dreamed that first day he walked into her office bearing both a bullet-hole-ridden laptop and flimsy excuses.

The van slows and comes to a stop. She can tell nothing from the sounds outside when the doors open in the back. She’s grabbed around the arms and with a nauseating whoosh of sensation, thrown over the man’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry. She briefly considers struggling, but she’d just land prone on the ground, probably head-first.

“Good girl,” the guy says, but nothing more. Funny, she’s always looked the part, but never really been a particularly good girl in truth.

A door unlocks and opens. His footsteps, instead of ringing on concrete or hardwood, are muffled by what might be carpet. It’s a smallish space, no echoes or machinery. An office building? A house?

Then another door opens and there’s a click of a lightswitch. They go down a flight of stairs, then cross part of a room before she is dropped onto a padded chair. 

Her hands and feet may be tied together, she may be forcibly blind and mute, but this is her chance. She hops upward, hoping to smash her head into her captor’s jaw, or at the very least, knock him off balance.

Instead, she hits nothing but air. Then his meaty fingers lock around her arms and push her forcibly back into the chair. “Where’s the good girl?”

This time the comment annoys her. “Not here,” she tries to say around her gag, but it comes out as garbled noise.

“You can take off her gag now, dear.”

The voice is unfamiliar, and surprisingly, female. It is also completely free of any Russian accent. But the ‘dear’ complies, and Felicity works her jaw a couple of times to lessen the ache. “Who are you?” she asks after swallowing to wet her dry throat.

“No one you know, sweetheart.” The woman is clearly a fan of endearments. “I prefer it stays that way.”

“Are you Bratva?”

“Oh, my heavens, no. Although we have an understanding. A few of their members have employed my services from time to time.”

Not Bratva? If that was true, why on earth was she taken? “What services would those be?” Anything Felicity can learn might help her out here.

There’s a considering pause. “Hmm. Playing it coy, I see.”

“I really don’t know.” Her mind works furiously to think why she could be important to some mystery woman with Bratva connections. Is she the ‘third party’ that Felicity posited to Laurel? “What kind of services?”

The woman sighs, disappointed. “It’s too bad you’re into playing games, sugar. I’d really rather hoped we could come to an agreement.” Felicity hears a chair roll backward and then two sets of footsteps on the stairs. The sound of the lightswitch tells her that she’s in the dark again, though it seems no different at all, considering the blindfold. The woman’s next words come from above. “Perhaps you’ll be less inclined to play in the morning. Sleep well.” The door closes.

* * *

Felicity awakens to the sound of the door opening again. She aches all over physically from exhaustion coupled with the pain from trying to wriggle free of her bonds, and mentally from the time spent puzzling at this mystery. Was the woman working for someone else or on her own? Either way, who could want to hold her captive, and why? 

A comforting smell drifts down—coffee? Maybe oatmeal, she’s not sure. “Feeling well rested, hon?” the woman asks.

It’s a stupid question, meant to annoy her. So Felicity doesn’t answer. “What time is it?” 

The woman doesn’t answer, either. “I’ve brought you some breakfast. That is, if you are feeling more cooperative today.”

“Lady,” Felicity says, lip curling, “I don’t know why the hell I’m here, let alone what it is you want to know.”

The woman tsks. “I thought you were a smart girl. Can you think of _nothing_ you’ve been up to lately that might land you in hot water?”

On the contrary, Felicity can think of a _dozen_ things. But which of them has brought her here, particularly if the woman is not Bratva, as she claims? She doesn’t want to inadvertently give away Oliver’s secret. And _not_ talking is more likely to keep her alive than talking. 

“Do you mean the hundred dollars I dropped on nail polish the other day, or the extra-long lunch breaks I’ve been taking lately? Or maybe the red light I ran last Tuesday, which I’ve been desperately not to ruin my manicure over in hopes that I wasn’t auto-ticketed?” Talking in tangents probably works, too. “Perhaps it’s the way-too-large order of state-of-the-art touch-screen monitors I placed a couple weeks back for my department. My boss usually doesn’t even notice stuff like that, and even if he does, I’m pretty good at explaining my purchases. Although I really mean my supervisor, not my _boss_ boss, Walter Steele, who has been missing for several weeks now, though honestly, he paid a lot more attention to my work than my supposed supervisor does...”

The woman cuts her off with a sound in her throat, impossible to read without the accompanying facial expression. “What about your other boss?”

“Who?”

A pause. Felicity is coming to dread those. “More games. Well, I see you need a little more time alone to make the right choice. I will visit again, later.”

Felicity hears her footsteps on the stairs again, and the door closing.

It’s a couple minutes later that she realizes the food and coffee was left in the room, tempting but out of reach.

For the next few hours, Felicity ignores the gnawing of hunger and concentrates on her plan of attack. She can’t get free of the bonds, not without breaking bones, and she’s no Oliver. 

But she _is_ going to have to ask for escape training when she gets out of this. _If_ she gets out of this. No, when. She has to trust that Oliver is searching for her right now. He’s an amazing tracker, even before he had his team around him. After all, she never reported in to work this morning. Though honestly… that’s not too uncommon now that she’s doing errands for Oliver a lot of time. Well, if she doesn’t show up to the Arrow Cave in the evening, surely someone will notice… unless Oliver and/or Diggle get busy with something unrelated.

She sighs. She might have a long wait before anyone is even _looking_ for her. And then, will they be looking in the right direction?

Later, though how much later she has no idea, she awakens to the feeling of a tiny pinch on the tips of her index fingers. “Wha…?” She fell asleep again? Wow, the lack of sight is really messing with her body clock. 

“I got tired of waiting,” the woman says, but from across the room, not from nearby. Her gorilla-sized lackey must be doing… whatever it is he’s doing. “Even if you don’t talk, I can get some answers.” The lackey gently straps something around her chest, places some sort of cuff on her arm.

Felicity hears a weird beeping and scratching sound. Is that… “A lie detector? Where on earth did you get that?”

“I have many, many connections, darling.”

Police or agency ones, she’d guess. Maybe black ops? Suddenly she feels even more in-over-her-head than before. 

“Let’s begin, shall we? Your name is Felicity Smoak, employee of Queen Consolidated.”

Felicity doesn’t answer. The babbling didn’t work, so it’s time to try silence.

Her lack of answer doesn’t deter the woman. “You graduated summa cum laude from M.I.T. with a degree in computer science.” Felicity hears a scratching sound. “Even more impressive, entered college at only 16 and graduated at 20.”

None of this information is secret, but somehow the woman must be pleased with the polygraph results, because she continues. “You have been working your way up the ranks at Queen Consolidated for the past two years, and run the I.T. department in all but title.”

Felicity tries to keep her face smooth, tries to keep from twitching to give anything away, but she doesn’t have much hope that she can control her heart rate, like Oliver seems to be able to.

“Recently, you have begun working with Oliver Queen, heir apparent to the Queen Consolidated throne. You spend a large number of your non-work hours at his nightclub, Verdant.”

Now the woman is getting into more privileged information. Felicity tries not to swallow.

“According to my research, you have performed a number of tasks for him using your not-inconsiderable hacking skill. To what purpose? Corporate espionage?” She waits, the needle scratching away. “The Bratva?” More scratching. “A more personal reason?” 

Felicity’s pulse starts to pound. This feels like an unfair game of twenty questions now.

“Hmm. Interesting. And why do you do it? For money?” The scratching now feels like it’s getting under her skin. “To prove you can?” Felicity can’t stop the swallow. “For love?”

Felicity goes still. But she knows her traitorous heart won’t stop, no matter how much she might want it to.

“Not much of a surprise. Oliver Queen seems to enjoy playing with a woman’s heartstrings. And more than one at a time. But as I’ve said, you’re a smart girl, sweetie. How did he manage to convince you to help another one of his many women?”

Felicity doesn’t want to react, but she catches herself shaking her head slightly.

“Or did you volunteer?” The woman tsks again. “Oh, honey. You could do so much better.” She chuckles. “ _I_ could do so much better for you.”

The woman is wrong. Felicity knows who Oliver truly is, who he is now anyway. He’s a better person than the man he presents to the world. Better than he even knows.

But where is he?

“So I only have one more question. Did you break into my files? Discover my connections?”

Felicity never got that far. She had been planning to run her software all night and wake up to some results, but…

“I see. Well, good news for me. In fact, this might yet be a happy ending for us all.”

A few moments later, the clamps are removed from her fingers, the cuff from around her arm, the straps from around her chest. Are they going to let her go?

Then the sound of a door bursting inward with a shattering of wood makes Felicity shout in fear and surprise. Oliver? There’s a scuffle, more shouting—at any moment she expects to hear the thunk of arrows piercing flesh. But it never comes. Instead, all is suddenly quiet, except for her captor’s voice. “You?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *runs*


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is 5,500 words -- 2 times longer than my average. So hopefully you'll forgive the wait!

Laurel takes a few hesitant steps toward Oliver. Her feet seem to be moving of their own volition, because her heart feels frozen with shock, with betrayal. 

Oliver is the vigilante?

After he has denied it over and over? She knew there was something off about the polygraph test he took, even confronted him on it. But in the months between, how has he been able to lie to her face so convincingly? _This_ must be the secret that has divided Tommy and Oliver.

She comes a little closer as he rocks on his heels, groaning in agony. All the details she’s heard from her father, heard through various legal channels, come crashing in on her. He’s a master bowman, with perfect aim. He’s a skilled martial artist, able to take down multiple assailants. He speaks more than just one foreign language, well enough to pass as a native. He threatened his own mother, before taking a bullet from her. He’s saved more people than he’s taken out, including Tommy’s father.

And then there are all the times they’ve interacted as vigilante and lawyer.

How can Oliver—hard-partying, college-dropout, womanizing, idle-rich Oliver—be this person? 

A sob catches in her throat as she takes another step, and her shadow crosses his line of vision. Suddenly, he’s in motion, pinning her by the neck against the wall with brutal force. The rage and anger in his eyes are so terrifying, she can only gasp in fright. 

It’s then that he sees her. That he realizes who she is. And a moment later, what she must have learned about who _he_ is.

“Laurel,” he breathes, stumbling back.

“Oliver.”

He can’t hear her yet, probably—she has no idea how quickly he will recover—but the pain and regret on his face tell her everything she needs to know. An explosive cocktail of churning emotions rises up in her and she slaps him, hard, across the face.

He doesn’t cradle his face, just lets the angry red bloom there, stark against the green paint around his eyes. “I’m so sorry…”

Her mouth drops open in affront. “Sorry?” She steps right into his face. “Sorry!?” She wants to strangle him, she’s so angry. “How can you stand there and just… try to apologize! After everything!”

He blinks back at her, able to read her lips if nothing else. There are no excuses, no explanations. 

“So who knows about this other than Tommy? Diggle? Felicity?” He doesn’t react to her furious questions. “Of course, Felicity knows! She’s a lot more than tech support to you, isn’t she? How else can the vigilante get access to so much protected information?”

Oliver’s eyes dart past her. “Felicity…”

Just the way he says the name makes Laurel’s stomach drop again, her fear returning double force for Felicity. “She’s not here.” Oliver starts to rush past her, and she stops him with a hand around one green-leather clad arm. He turns back to look at her. “I think she’s been taken.”

His eyes narrow to angry slits and he breaks out of her grip to go into the living room. She finds him bent over the spilled contents of her purse, picking through them with gloved hands, like a detective. 

“That’s mine,” she says. 

He doesn’t react, still deaf from the sonic device. She walks around to crouch next to him, but he’s already standing, moving over to the coffee table, where Felicity’s laptop sits. “They missed this,” he says, his voice a growl. It’s so different, his whole demeanor is so different, as if the leathers somehow give him a new personality.

“She was…” Laurel begins, but then crouches to get into his line of sight. “She was trying to trace back the person who bugged my computer.” Laurel’s eyes drift to the door. where Felicity’s phone lies on the carpet. “Looks like they found her first.”

As she turns back to him, he’s already disappearing through the bedroom door. 

“Hey! Come back here!” She grunts in frustration, realizing he still can’t hear her. She leaps to her feet and chases after him, just in time to see him slipping out the window. “Wait!” She runs to look out onto the street, to see which way he’s heading. 

He’s just… gone.

As she stands there, blinking at the curtains billowing in his wake, she realizes: what did he read on the laptop screen that made him take off in such a hurry?

She quickly returns to the living room to see… and finds the laptop gone as well. “Dammit, Oliver.”

* * *

Laurel bangs a fist on the metal door as hard as she can. “If you’re in there, you’d better let us in!” she yells. 

She feels a hand on her shoulder. “Laurel…” Tommy pleads. Once she’d told him the story, he’d insisted on coming with her to _Verdant_. Unfortunately, the door code they’d used when Tommy worked there had been changed. “Maybe he’s not even down there—”

She spins, shrugging off his hand. “He’s there, Tommy.” She holds up Felicity’s phone and the blinking icon tracking Oliver’s location. “At least this tells me he is. Diggle, too.” She bangs on the door again. “You have to let me help you find Felicity! I have information that you don’t!” There’s no response. “You want to play it this way? I can get my father involved, you kn—”

The door opens and Diggle stands there, a half-amused, half-concerned expression on his face. “Boy’s got himself in hot water this time, huh?”

Laurel just shoves past him and down the stairs. Behind her, she hears Tommy say, “More like molten lava.” Diggle chuckles.

She’s only been down here the one time, but it looks totally different. Training equipment, most of which she can’t identify. Racks of weaponry and metal cabinets filled with God-knows-what. A bank of computers. It’s at the last where Oliver sits, his face bathed in a bluish glow.

Seeing this setup, the evidence of the truth—Oliver is the vigilante, has always been the vigilante—would smack her in the face if she weren’t so angry. 

“Oliver!” She stalks right up to him and slams her hands on the desk in front of him, leaning in. He lifts his eyes to give her an icy-cold stare, one that would have knocked her backward with its intensity if she weren’t so incensed. “By now the effects of Felicity’s device have worn off, so you’re going to listen and listen g—”

“Felicity gave you that?” he rasps, surprised.

“Yes. For protection. It’s too bad she didn’t have another one on her, or she’d be free of those Bratva thugs already.”

He shakes his head once, a violent shake, and his eyes drop back to the computer monitor, where he’s transferring the data from Felicity’s laptop. “The Bratva don’t have her. I checked.”

“What? And you believe them?”

“I didn’t say they _told_ me.” He gives her a sort of half-smirk before his face goes blank again.

“Fine. Then who does?”

“I don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

“How?” Laurel wants to scream with frustration. She’s stumbled onto his biggest secret, and he’s still acting as if his face is hidden behind the hood.

“It’s what I do.” He types away, face impassive. “Trust me.”

Laurel scoffs bitterly. “ _Trust_ you? Are you kidding me?” She comes around the edge of the table, getting into his personal space. “How can I trust you after seeing all of this?”

“Did you trust me before? Did you trust the vigilante?”

Laurel presses her lips together. “Does it matter? What did you think I would do when I found out? Did you think I was just going to dissolve into thanks for all the times you saved my life and forget about all the times you put everyone else in danger? All the times you lied to me?”

“Huh,” Tommy says from nearby. “Not how I expected this to go.”

They both ignore him. “ _Did_ you trust me then?” Oliver repeats.

“Yes,” she answers, hating that it’s true.

“Seeing all of this shouldn’t change it, then.”

“Oh, no? If you’ve been keeping this a secret from me, then how many other things have you been keeping from me, from everyone?”

Oliver rises slowly in front of her, intimidating her with his power and his height. Somehow he is twice as scary now as with the hood up. His eyes narrow to feral slits and he rasps, “There are things I will never tell _anyone_ , Laurel, let alone you.”

She stands her ground despite a trembling betraying her, willing herself not to flinch as he stares her down. “Why?”

“Because I went through hell. Because no one should ever have to experience what I did, even second ha—”

“No.” She cuts him off. “Why do you do it?”

“Do what?” He’s annoyed by the question. Good.

“Pick off slimeballs one by one. Target rich, white-collar criminals, even those no one knew about until they ended up confessing or were found with an arrow through the chest. Save the helpless, seemingly at random. Help your sister, but accuse your mother.” She lifts onto her toes, so he has to focus on her and nothing else. “Because you can? Because you’re bored? Because something inside of you is fundamentally broken?”

The last accusation seems to physically wound him. He steps back, wincing, and turns away from her.

“It’s been broken since my father killed himself in front of me, just so I could have _this_.” He grabs something from the desk and tosses it to her.

She manages not to drop it, a small blank book. She flips through the pages, covered in names—she recognizes some of them, some she doesn’t. The ones crossed out… “What is this? A trophy book?”

“A list my father made. Of people who have wronged Starling City. He charged me with righting their wrongs.”

The list of names is enormous, and only a fraction have been crossed off. “And so you’re…” She tries to wrap her head around it. “...you’re just going to tick names off like some sort of insane to-do list until they’re gone? And then what?”

He opens his mouth once, twice, then closes it. “It doesn’t matter. What matters now is finding Felicity.” He sits back at the computer. “I can’t make heads or tails of the results here, it’s just a bunch of numbers. You said you could help? Tell me what you know.”

She deflates. He’s right. She wants to grill him all night about this, but at the same time, she knows it can wait. It has to wait. What precious seconds have been lost while she gave in to her indignant rage? “I bumped into the thug that I think took Felicity. Twice. Once in the hallway in Felicity’s apartment building, once at the courthouse.” She comes close enough to look over Oliver’s shoulder, to see what he’s doing. “I can give you a description…”

“This guy?” He points at his screen, where she watches a security feed of the hallway outside Felicity’s door. Of course, they would have set something like this up. As Laurel watches, the man grabs Felicity and drags her to the stairwell. Tommy and Diggle, who had kept away from the confrontation before, drift over to look as well, now that Oliver and Laurel’s mutual worry for Felicity has calmed the waters temporarily.

“Do you know him? He definitely had some sort of accent, maybe Russian.”

“No.” He plays back the feed a couple of times, studying it. “Wait, did you say you saw him at the courthouse, too?”

“Yes, with Yashkin’s secretary.”

Oliver’s head cocks and he frowns. “That’s odd. I was assured that Yashkin was not a threat.”

“When you were ‘not asking questions’?” Diggle’s face darkens as he watches the abduction replay.

“During my… conversation with certain individuals, yes.” Oliver clicks through several links as he talks, and then suddenly the monitor fills with images of the courthouse security feeds. “Which judge heard your case today?”

Laurel huffs a laugh. “Judge Adams.” She’s no longer shocked at how well-connected Oliver-the-secret-vigilante is. She’d seen first-hand what sorts of things Felicity could do with only a laptop. Here, in their lair, Oliver has who-knows-what at his disposal.

The view jumps to Adams’ courtroom, the events of the day’s cases in a fast reverse until Oliver stops it on her hearing. She has to squint to pick out the thug in the gallery—the wide angle lens doesn’t give much detail—but she sees him and the secretary in the back soon enough. “That’s him. There,” she says, pointing. “Can you get in any closer?”

Oliver does something, zooming in. The two are pixelated, not any more recognizable than before. He taps a couple more times with no result. “Felicity makes this look easier…” he murmurs.

“Felicity makes cracking the FBI database look easy,” Diggle puts in. His admiration is unmistakable.

Laurel turns toward him. “What did you do before her?”

“A lot of threatening of names from that List at arrowpoint. Since she joined the team, things have been a bit more… efficient. Not to mention the lower body count.”

“So, he’s somehow a kinder, gentler vigilante these days?” Tommy scoffs, arms crossed.

“He’s been more on the path of saving than punishing people—and I’d like to think that both Felicity and I have had something to do with it.”

Laurel nods. “The press has certainly gone from ‘dangerous nutjob’ to ‘city hero’ over the last year.”

Oliver shoots all of them a narrow look. “While you all were playing discussion roundtable on Face the Nation, I found something we can use.” He points to a view of the courthouse parking garage, where the thug is holding open a car door for the secretary, who is conveniently turned away from the camera. Oliver types the license plate into another window and a photo pops up on the screen. It’s the thug, one Yevgeny Kolkhoz. He’s already standing, dialing a number on his cell phone, and talking rapidly in Russian to someone as he paces the floor before she can ask. “ _Spasibo_.” He disconnects the call and stalks back to the computer. “He’s not Bratva.”

“Is that good or bad?” Laurel asks.

“Both. Neither. But for now, I’ve got a name and address to check out.” He scribbles down the address on a scrap of paper and walks toward the staircase, snagging his bow on the way.

* * *

The motorcycle stays barely in view ahead of them. Then Oliver’s bike disappears, suddenly swerving down an alley. Diggle takes a hard left to keep up.

Laurel grabs at the passenger-side handle to keep from whacking her shoulder on the door. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“A lot of practice,” he says. “Too much.”

Laurel would have hopped a ride with Oliver if he hadn’t taken off before she could stop him. Luckily, Diggle wasn’t hard to convince to let her ride along. “The man needs to be microchipped,” she jokes, only half-serious.

“Believe me, I’ve thought about it.” He speeds through a yellow light, taking another curve way too fast. “The boot tracker only works when he’s ‘in uniform.’”

By the time they pull up to the curb in front of Kolkhoz’s address, a simple brownstone apartment building on the edge of The Glades, Laurel can’t see Oliver’s bike anywhere. Is it hidden? She looks out the window for a glimpse of a shadowy figure in the fading light of twilight, her eyes turning toward the roof. 

He isn’t there. Or not visible anyway. She doubts she would see him unless he wanted it.

She shakes her head. She’s still reeling from the revelation. Back when Oliver was first accused, she didn’t want to believe it. But she _could_ have, since he seemed so broken, so different from the happy-go-lucky guy she had dated. But in the months since, she had gotten used to the new, more mature Oliver, the club owner, the friend. She just can’t reconcile the Oliver she’s come to know with the vigilante in her mind, like two sides of a coin that you never see at the same time.

She reaches for her purse, handgun stashed inside, and starts to pull on the door handle. Diggle stops her with a hand on her arm. She starts to pull away in protest, but his grip tightens like a vice. “What? There has to be something I can do.”

Diggle doesn’t answer, instead he taps his ear, where a transmitter she hadn’t noticed before sits in the ear canal. “Update me. She there?” She can’t hear what Oliver says, only Diggle’s side of the conversation. “Too bad. We’ll keep an eye out here for Kolkhoz.” He chuckles then, a low, pleasant rumble. “Who’s ‘we’? Who do you think?” He taps his ear to end the communication.

But he hasn’t released her arm. She tugs on it again. “Diggle…”

“He’s got it under control, Ms. Lance.”

“Laurel.”

He doesn’t respond to the correction. “Do you really think it’s a good idea for you to go inside? A little B & E is the vigilante’s bread and butter. But you…?”

She sighs and settles. He’s right. If she were caught in there, she’d be in major trouble. With her job, with the police, with her dad… She’s not sure which one is worse to contemplate. She’s a defense lawyer, not a rogue crimefighter. But she hates just sitting here in the car, doing nothing, while Felicity is held God-knows-where. She sighs again. Perhaps there is a benefit to hiding behind a false identity.

Diggle releases her then, satisfied that she sees the wisdom of his words.

A few minutes later, Diggle tenses and taps his ear again. “Find anything? … Nothing out here, either. … Understood. We’ll keep a watch on the street.” He turns to Laurel. “He didn’t find anything in a cursory search of Kolkhoz’s place, not even a computer to sift through.”

“He can do that?”

“Felicity’s taught us a couple of tricks.” Diggle settles back in his seat. “All we can do now is hope he returns home.”

“Do you…?” she hesitates before continuing, “do you want me to see what my dad can dig up on him?”

Diggle is shaking his head before she finishes the question. “Not yet. There’ll be too many questions.”

She understands, even though it goes against everything she’s ever learned. “But Felicity is in danger! Every minute he has her—”

He places a heavy hand on her arm again, not to stop her, but to settle her. “Rushing off half-cocked isn’t going to help her, either. If there’s one thing I learned in the service, it’s that patience usually pays off.”

She glances at the fading light and the dark apartment building. “I hope you’re right.”

It’s a long wait, testing every bit of her patience. She texts Tommy a couple of times, assuring him that she’s fine, but still no Felicity. She knows he’s worried; before she took off after Diggle, he hugged her as if it might be the last time, whispering into her hair, “Be safe.”

“I’ll be fine, Tommy. I promise. Remember?” She’d pulled back and given him a sly smile. “I’m Dinah Laurel Lance.” She tries to hold on to the memory of the brave smile he’d given her in return.

“Look sharp,” Diggle suddenly says, and she’s on guard in an instant, sitting up straight to see. The car from the parking garage video pulls up and Kolkhoz steps out, alone. He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. “Heading your way, Oliver.”

Any moment now, she expects to hear that Oliver has pinned the guy to his front door and is grilling him for answers, but as the minutes pass with no news, she starts to worry. “What’s going on in there?”

Diggle holds up a hand for silence as he continues to listen. “He didn’t? Then where did he—?”

It’s then that they see Kolkhoz, returning with a large box in his arms. He places it in his car and starts the ignition.

“He must have gone to a storage closet, not his apartment.” Diggle says, starting his car up as well. “We’re on his tail right now.”

Laurel’s blood begins to pound in fear and anticipation as they drive. Kolkhoz has to be leading them back to Felicity, he _has_ to! She’ll never forgive herself if something terrible has happened—Laurel is the one who asked Felicity to get involved in this case, not the other way around. If not for her, Felicity could have been at home right now, watching her DVD box sets and having a glass of red… or more likely, talking Starling City’s infamous green-hooded vigilante through his latest mission. Either way, she would have been safe, doing what she loves.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” Diggle says.

Laurel’s head turns in surprise. He’s amazing at reading body language—which must make him fantastic at his job. Both of them. “But you see, it is. If I had followed procedure, and kept to the letter of the law…”

“Then your client would be on her way to prison now, or back to Russia, or most likely, much worse.” He waits for a moment, then adds, “And you wouldn’t know the truth about Oliver.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And you think that’s a good thing? I’m surprised.”

“I think the more that Oliver keeps the people he loves at a distance, the closer he gets to losing himself to the darker aspects of his personality.” He focuses back on the road again. “He needs you… and Tommy… and Felicity and me… to ground him, until his moral compass corrects itself. He could be such a force for good in this city.”

She nods. “But he can’t do it alone.”

“Exactly.” The car slows as they turn into a suburban housing development. An odd place to hold a captive, but maybe that’s the point. “Oliver, Kolkhoz has turned into the driveway of a house, 1015 Hill Drive.” Diggle drives past, taking a right and pulling over. “I’m parking around the corner. Give me your location.”

There’s a light knock on the window beside her head and she jumps as Oliver ghosts past. They hadn’t seen him at all on the drive over. He disappears from view in moments.

“Now what?” Laurel asks.

“We wait for Oliver’s signal.”

She nods, slipping her fingers into her handbag to close around the handle of her pistol. She’ll be ready. She’s learning that saving people often comes down to waiting for the right moment.

But the minutes pass with no word. “What’s happening? Is she there?”

Diggle shakes his head once, and taps the comm on. “Oliver, what’s your status?” He listens for a moment. “Oliver, report.” Then he goes to open his door handle.

This time it’s Laurel who stops him with a hand. “No, I should go in. It’s both of their lives at stake now—despite everything, it _is_ my fault they’re in this mess. What’s a little felony in the face of that?”

“Laurel…”

“What if Kolkhoz takes off in his car? We’ll need you to chase him.” She double-checks the sonic device and puts the earplugs in, just in case. Then she cocks her gun and opens the passenger door.

He starts to protest, but must think better of it. “I won’t ask if you know how to use that thing.”

“Daughter of a cop, remember?” she says, slipping it into her waistband. “Come after us if you don’t hear anything in ten minutes.” Then she shuts the door.

The window rolls down. “Wait!” Diggle calls. Laurel turns back, ready to argue her case, when a bundle of cloth is tossed into her hands. “Put that on at least.”

She shakes it out. It’s a black hooded sweatshirt. “My very own hood?” she asks, more than a little sardonic.

“If it ain’t broke…”

She slips it on with a quiet huff of laughter. It looks terrible over her court attire, a fitted skirt and heels, but she’s pretty sure no one from the fashion blogs will be taking note. As she breaks into a light jog, she wishes she’d had time to change her shoes…

When she gets to the house, it’s dark, as if no one is home. No sign of Oliver or Kolkhoz anywhere. So Laurel circles the house, gently trying each entrance, peering in the windows for any sign. She makes a quick decision—and luckily the lock on the kitchen door is as easy to pick as Felicity’s was. As she turns the knob, she readies her gun, and slips inside.

A moment later, she finds herself pressed up against the pantry door. “What do you think you’re doing?” Oliver hisses.

At least his arm isn’t against her throat this time. “Coming in to save _you_ ,” she hisses back.

“I’m fine,” he growls, backing away. “Now go back to Diggle.”

She doesn’t budge. “Did you find Felicity?”

“No. But she’s here.” He steals almost silently toward the hallway beside the kitchen, then waves her off when she starts to follow. “I said ‘go back to Diggle.’”

“And I didn’t listen. You’ve got me here whether you want me or not.” Her heels make a slightly louder click, and she freezes, holding her breath. When there’s no immediate consequence, she slips them off to follow in stockinged feet. “Where is she?”

He makes a face, difficult to read under the hood and the makeup, but she’s pretty sure it’s annoyance. “Below. I can hear voices faintly. There must be a secret entrance to the basement.”

She stills, listening. He’s right, even through the earplugs there’s a very faint murmur coming from somewhere below. It doesn’t sound like Kolkhoz. It sounds like… a woman’s voice. The secretary? Laurel’s convinced the woman ranks higher than the thug. But how much? Is she the ringleader or a middleman? She pads after Oliver. “I think we should bring the police in.”

“No. Not until Felicity is safe.”

“How do you know she’s even down there?”

“I don’t.” He stops his quiet search to glare at her again. “Which is why I’m trying to find out first.”

“So I’ll help you find out. _Then_ I call.”

“Laurel, you shouldn’t even be here—”

“Did you trust me before I found out the truth?” she asks, throwing his own words back at him.

His eyes flash, but he nods.

“Then trust me now.” 

Laurel drops to her knees in the hallway, popping one of the plugs out of her ear and getting in close to the baseboards. She crawls several yards, stopping to listen every few feet. Oliver, after watching her for a few moments, starts on the other side of the hall. Her shin catches on something, and she hears a _rip_ as her stockings tear on a loose board. Biting back an unladylike curse while she unhooks the nylon, she suddenly realizes that she can hear the voices more clearly now.

It’s the secretary. _“And why do you do it? For money? To prove you can? For love?”_ Laurel gestures for Oliver to come close. The woman continues, _“Not much of a surprise. Oliver Queen seems to enjoy playing with a woman’s heartstrings. And more than one at a time. But as I’ve said, you’re a smart girl, sweetie. How did he manage to convince you to help another one of his many women?”_

“Felicity’s there.”

“The woman knows that Felicity works for me.” It sounds like the woman is implying a lot more than that, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve found her. 

“And that she’s been helping me.” Laurel follows the seam of the loose board to the wall. There’s a barely-visible crack in the wall, behind a hutch. Laurel tests the weight; she won’t be able to lift it herself. “Help me move this.”

“I’ll get it,” he says. “Step back.”

She does so, and watches with amazement as he lifts it easily, setting it a few feet to the side with barely a sound. 

“Oh my god,” she breathes. “Who are you?”

He answers her with a satisfied smile as he taps lightly at the wall and listens. 

“All right, so now we just have to—” is all she gets out before he takes a flying leap at the wall.

The wood splinters inward with a thunderous crash, and he tumbles down a flight of stairs as easily as an acrobat. From above, she sees Felicity, bound to a chair, blindfolded, but looking safe, from a distance, anyway. Oliver takes out Kolkhoz in a couple of swift punches and then nocks an arrow to point at the secretary in a matter of seconds. 

The woman does not cower in fear. Instead, she looks Oliver up and down slowly, and drawls unafraid, “You?”

Laurel steps out of direct view—it might be best if neither the woman nor her thug know the vigilante has backup. Who is she anyway? She’s clearly more than just Yashkin’s assistant. In fact, thinking back, she remembers Yashkin being distinctly nervous about her presence in his office. Is it possible that Yashkin was under her thumb, not the other way around? That this woman is behind Sonya’s framing instead of Yashkin? But why?

Oliver takes a moment to slip off Felicity’s blindfold, and she blinks blearily. “Miss? Are you okay?” he asks, voice modulator on. 

“I—I’m okay.” Felicity wriggles in her chair. “A little thirsty, and I have no idea what day it is or what time. Actually, more than a little thirsty...”

Oliver re-trains his bow instantly on the woman. “Why did you kidnap her?” he asks brusquely, cutting off Felicity before she launches into a litany of complaints. Laurel can see he doesn’t want his closeness to Felicity to show.

The woman shifts her weight to the other foot, and lifts a hand to cup her chin. “I think the better question, darling, is… how did you know I had her at all?”

In the blink of an eye, Oliver lets an arrow fly. It thunks into the floor an inch from her foot. “I’m not asking twice.”

She looks down at the arrow, quivering with the impact, and then back up at Oliver. “She poked her nose into my business. I didn’t take kindly to it.”

“What kind of business?” She doesn’t answer right away, and Oliver raises his voice angrily. “Tell me or the next arrow strikes a couple inches to the left.”

The woman gives him a slow smile. “Does this usually work, handsome? You threaten, and criminals turn to mush?”

He doesn’t hesitate. An arrow pierces the woman through the foot. Felicity yelps, and Laurel bites back a shout of surprise, but the woman barely reacts beyond a tensing of the muscles of her face. 

She blows out a heavy breath. “So your exploits go beyond urban legend. Good for you.” She pauses a long moment, then continues, her voice tightly controlled. “But, loverboy, keeping my business my own is worth more to me than my life.”

“Suits me fine.” Oliver nocks another arrow. 

Laurel hopes he’s bluffing, but can she take the chance? She begins to step out of the shadows...

“She’s part of human trafficking ring here in town. Probably runs it,” Felicity suddenly says. “I’m sure I can prove it once I get back to my laptop.”

Laurel shifts back out of sight.

“Pretty good, sweetheart. Fooling the polygraph.” The woman chuckles, but cuts off with a gasp of pain. The arrow to the foot is too much for even her cool composure. 

“I bet that she’s behind the framing of Sonya Larina,” Felicity continues, echoing Laurel’s suspicions earlier, “and the bugging of her lawyer’s computer as well.” Then she twists to look into the woman’s eyes. “And I put it together just now, _honeysugarpie_.”

The woman sighs. “Well, I—” She winces. “I had a good run.”

There’s something off about her quick capitulation. Laurel glances over at the thug on the floor, no longer completely still. His fingers are closing ever so slowly around the trigger of a gun…

She hates doing this, she knows Oliver will kill her for doing this twice to him in one day. She re-seats the earplug she had removed earlier and presses the button on the sonic device.

Everyone in the room below screams and covers their ears in pain… all except Oliver. 

He looks up toward where Laurel hovers just outside the smashed-in doorway and shrugs, pointing at his ears. “Fool me once…”

He makes swift work of blindfolding and tying the woman and her bodyguard up, then helps a hurting Felicity to her feet. She squints up at Laurel, now visible above. “Wow, that thing really works, doesn’t it?” Then, from exhaustion, hunger or shock, she passes out in Oliver’s arms.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interesting that the show introduced Canary’s sonic device so soon after my last chapter. Serendipity? Luck? Who knows.
> 
> Enjoy this final chapter! Thanks for all the support along the way. ♥

Felicity’s eyes flicker open. She’s in bed, her own, thankfully, not a sterile hospital room. She vaguely remembers someone getting her to drink something, maybe another someone helping her into a set of flannel pajamas, but not much else.

The morning sun is shining through the window, which means she slept through the night. Maybe more than one night? She groans. Her body clock is going to be more off than the week she bet the nerdbros in her major at MIT that she could pull off the better prank against CalTech. They won, but it didn’t matter, because she used their distraction to hit the Harvard servers instead. To this day, no one has suspected the true culprit that set off all the sprinklers in the computer science department. Teach them to not accept her.

She turns over and sees Oliver, sitting in a chair beside her bed. He gives her a smile, happiness or relief touching his eyes. “Good morning.”

She tests her limbs with a tentative stretch. Not too cramped up from hours of sitting tied to a chair, thank goodness. “How long was I out?”

“Just one night.”

She sighs with relief. There was no telling if her captors had given her anything while she was unconscious. “Thanks for saving me. It’s nice to wake up in bed next to you—” She bites her lip. “You know what I mean.”

“I do know what you mean,” he says, rubbing the top of her hand lightly. “I usually do.”

“And yet you still let me trip over my words like a fool?” She gives his leg a too-weak swat. “You could stop me, you know.”

“What would be the fun in that?” His eyes twinkle, and she can’t help but smile.

Laurel walks into the room then, bearing a tray with something steaming. “Oh, you _are_ awake. I thought I heard voices. I brought some tea, if you want it…”

Felicity pushes herself up to a sitting position. Her arms shake a little with the effort, but she manages not to completely embarrass herself. “I’d love some.” Then her eyes go wide as she remembers exactly what she had seen right before she collapsed. “Um, Laurel, you were—that is—do you—?”

“I know everything.” Laurel sits down in a chair on the other side of the bed, balancing the tray in her lap. “At least the vigilante part.”

“And you’re not home in bed nursing injuries yourself?” she asks Oliver, completely serious. “Clearly, you’re not in jail, either.”

“It was a close thing there, for a while,” Oliver jokes. He’s behaving like the Oliver she’s come to know—the one somewhere between the steely-eyed vigilante and the charming playboy. The one that mixes the best of the two.

But even then, Felicity can’t believe the lightness in his tone. She turns a questioning eyebrow on Laurel, who looks very uncomfortable. “He’s right. I wanted to flay him with one of his arrows at first. Then I had to put my anger on hold until you were safe.” 

“Now?” 

“Now…” The two share a look, like they’ve formed an uneasy truce. “You’re familiar with double jeopardy, correct?” At Felicity’s nod, Laurel continues. “Since he can’t be retried for the same crimes, the police are going to have to build a whole new case against him for anything to stick. And I’m a defense lawyer, not the police. If I worked for the D.A.’s office though…”

Felicity shudders. If that were true, they would be in a huge mess right now. “You could still leave an anonymous tip?”

Laurel sighs, eyes going distant as she talks. “I thought about it. And then I thought about how the vigilante has changed since Oliver was first brought in. How I’ve defended him to my father for the good he’s done.” Laurel focuses back on Felicity. “Now I know why.” 

Felicity feels her face go hot. She’s tried hard to help Oliver see reason since she joined the team. But to hear someone else actually say it… She deflects with another question. “So who was that psycho? Someone from The List?”

“Anna Belyakova,” Oliver answers. “And surprisingly, no.”

“You were right,” Laurel says. “She was in charge of the human trafficking ring in town. That house had several secret rooms like the one where you were being held. The police are trying to ferret out the rest of her holdings, but they found plenty of evidence in just that one location to put her away for a long time.” Laurel smiles suddenly. “And Sonya was released this morning, cleared of all charges.”

Felicity finds herself matching Laurel’s smile. “That almost makes up for all of this.” 

“Almost.”

Oliver clears his throat. They both turn to see him smiling slightly. “I think I’m going to let Laurel take the next shift,” he says, rising from his chair. He places a hand on Felicity’s forearm, squeezing a goodbye, and it seems to linger for just a moment longer than she expects. She can’t be sure, as groggy as she still feels. To Laurel, he says, “See you Friday night. I’ll bring the wine.” 

“Friday?” Felicity asks. 

“To celebrate,” Laurel explains, tucking a wavy strand behind her ear and looking down. “The end of the case.”

“And more,” Oliver says, his voice thick with meaning.

“Oh.” Felicity’s not sure what to say now. Not sure what she _can_ say. Even with Tommy in the picture, they’re old friends, were once much more than friends. She’s just the IT girl whom Oliver once found useful.

Laurel starts then and takes Felicity’s hand. “Oh, Tommy’s going to be there! And you, of course. You’re practically the guest of honor! I hope you’ll come.”

Oliver nods. “We both do.”

Felicity stammers a little. “Oh, uh, right, yes, I’ll come. What wine did you say you’re bringing?”

Laurel and Oliver laugh. “I’ll surprise you,” he says, and then with another nod, leaves the room.

Felicity watches him walk out—he looks so comfortable and in control. Like he’s found another place of safety. Does that mean…? “Tommy’s really going to be there?”

“Really.”

Felicity lies back to rest her head against the pillows again. “Wow.”

“Not to say all is forgiven… but they’re willing to take the first step.”

Felicity winks. “And if they get stubborn again, you and I can give them a little push the rest of the way.” She uses a little demonstrating gesture, and immediately regrets it, her muscles protesting with pain.

Laurel immediately shakes out a couple of ibuprofen and hands them to her with a glass of water. She lets out a wicked chuckle. “If anyone could get away with that, it’s you.”

“Just me? You practically keep both of them wrapped around your finger, and you haven’t dated Oliver in _years_.” 

Laurel raises her eyebrows, and then shrugs. “They don’t stand a chance, then.”

Felicity tosses back the pills and lifts her water glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

* * *

Felicity’s voice buzzes in Laurel’s ear. _“Take the next right.”_

The cold air burns her lungs and she’s sure the sound of her boots pounding the pavement must be audible for blocks. “Is the girl still okay?” she murmurs.

_“For now. But hurry.”_

Laurel doesn’t know how Felicity can see what she sees, but she’s thankful. In the days since the Undertaking leveled half The Glades, street crime has gone way up. Thank god Oliver’s team had been able to work with the police to stop the one of the earthquake devices, or it could have been much worse.

Tommy’s been working tirelessly to make up for the evils of his father with charity work. Oliver and Thea, too. And then at night… well, the vigilante seems to be everywhere these days.

But he can’t be. He only appears superhuman to his targets—his friends know otherwise.

With CNRI gone, she’s had a lot more free time than before. So Laurel speeds toward the mugging around the corner, bo staff already coming up to land a satisfying _crack_ on one of the muggers’ heads. She spin kicks another, and boots the third in the groin. He drops the girl’s purse.

Laurel turns to the victim. “Get to safety.”

The girl nods fearfully, but does as she’s told. Laurel clouts each man on the skull a second time for good measure, and then zip-ties all three to the lamppost. “Tell my dad the Canary’s got another present for him.”

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to sync up my AU with the show, just a little. ;) Here’s to Laurel taking on the Canary mantle in the future.
> 
> Extra hugs and thanks to veritas724, innerbrat, blithers and van_el for beta and brainstorming help throughout. ♥


End file.
